


Measure of a Man

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-05-03
Updated: 2003-05-03
Packaged: 2018-11-11 04:46:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 48,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11141289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: Teen-aged Ben Fraser descends to the underworld.  Will he make it out?





	Measure of a Man

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

  
Measure of a Man

## Measure of a Man

by Strwriter and Mary

Disclaimer: 

Author's Notes: My thanks to Strwriter for asking me to see Ben through this journey. If anyone can get in touch with Strwriter, please let her know I've (finally!) finished this story.

Story Notes: Allusions to several dS episodes and anecdotes therein.

* * *

It's intriguing how life runs in circles. One aspect of my life, in particular, has formed a very large, very painful circle: a circle of love and hate, joy and pain, trust and deception. 

It all started, and it all ended, with a mirror, a lie, tears in the snow, and a beautiful girl with long, dark hair. It started when I was fifteen. I fell in love, I faced choices, two hearts were broken, and I lay bleeding in the pain of my own decisions as the snow fell upon me. It ended twenty years later. I fell in love, I faced choices, two hearts were broken, and I again lay bleeding in the pain of my own decisions as snow fell upon me. 

Or maybe it didn't end there, in that train station. To be honest, I'm not certain that it will ever ultimately end.... 

* * *

We'll begin on October 3rd, 1977, in a cabin on the outskirts of Tuktoyaktuk... 

* * *

Taking a deep breath, I stepped back from the mirror to have a good long look at myself. I was fifteen years old, standing in my spartan bedroom in the cabin I shared with my grandparents who had raised me since the sudden death of my mother when I was only six. Librarians and missionaries, they loved me like another son, but they were tough, hard people who accepted no nonsense, teaching me and guiding me to live a life that was free of weakness. My room reflected those survivalist mores, furnished with nothing more than a bed, a desk, a bookcase, and a trunk, all of simple, sturdy wood. My mirror was small, just large enough to make sure I was parting my hair straight when I combed it in the morning, but it was enough to see that I was doing something I had never done before. I was rebelling against my grandparents. 

It was harder than I expected to break so many of my grandmother's rules about a nice young man's appearance, and I suppose that was credit to how well her wooden spoon had worked those lessons into me. Of course, this was one time when I didn't want to look like a nice young man. 

I was wearing my old hiking boots with the sealskin interiors, still warm and dry although they were beginning to develop splits down the sides. As fast as I'd been growing, I decided I needed to get use out of them while I still could. I had already grown as tall as my father, at 173 centimeters, and I showed no signs of stopping. My blue jeans bagged slightly at my ankles, testament to Grandma's habit of buying all my clothing a size too large to accommodate some continual growth. The oldest sweater I owned hung loosely over a flannel shirt and turtleneck, the neck stretched out of shape and threads hanging from the various snags like flags of defeat. The clothing resembled that of any one of a hundred young hunters, but not at all like that of a Boy Scout. Just the way I wanted it. 

I couldn't help but frown as I looked at my face in the mirror. I knew vanity was a sin, and I don't think I was a particularly vain boy - but how could I have been with Innusiq and the other Inuit youths for comparison? In that group, I was more an oddball than anything else. Julie Frobisher had told me once that I was 'not half bad', but she was my friend, and she was seeing Gerrard's son Charles, so she must have thought he was better looking. Not that it mattered. Still, I was rather bitingly aware of how well I deserved Uncle Buck's nickname of "Babyface Ben." 

I don't think I had shaved twice in the past four months, and to be honest, those two sessions with the razor were mostly wishful thinking. Though my voice had deepened and my nose changed from a child's nubbin to an adult's contours, my face still had something of the smooth, rounded look of a little boy. What seemed like impossibly large blue eyes, an almost cherubic mouth, and long eyelashes did not help the matter any. I couldn't shake the feeling that the whole scheme was going to fall through if they thought I was twelve years old. Sighing, I turned away from the mirror to double-check my bags. Nothing I could do about my face, so why worry about it? 

Everything was exactly as I stowed it. Packing was one area where I had refused to abandon the neat and efficient ways I'd been taught. Up in the North country, anyone who knew what they were doing would pack carefully and tightly. The price of doing otherwise could easily be death. 

I breathed a silent thanks to Quinn for his three years of tutelage. I could track most animals fairly well, and he had taught me how to set several kinds of traps and how to butcher my catch. Knowledge of the leaves, berries, and even bark that can be eaten lessened the amount of food I needed to bring, but I was not arrogant enough to think that I could live by my wits alone. Quinn always said only a fool trusts himself completely. 

Despite Quinn's advice, I knew I'd have to trust myself a lot in the next several weeks. I'd be among men who had already broken their word by breaking the law, and Gerrard used to say that once a man has broken his word, there was no trusting him ever again. Among such dishonesty, the only thing you can trust is yourself and your own judgment. If I failed and was somehow caught, I knew there was a high likelihood they would respond violently to my presence. 

Strangely, that thought didn't bother me much. I suppose it was because I'd spent my childhood with a father who was forever running off pursuing criminal after criminal who wanted him dead. Compared to being a Mountie, being a Scout was a piece of cake. 

Before I closed my pack, I made one final inventory of the contents. My snowshoes were lashed to the outside, my knife tucked into a strap where I could easily access it in case of trouble. Plenty of thick winter garments took up the majority of space inside the pack, and two leather pouches bulged with pemmican. A number of other little items like waterproof matches, a compass, my mess kit, soap, candles, and several dozen other assorted sundries made up the rest of my inventory, stuffing the old backpack nearly to bursting. 

As I finished packing and tightened the straps that would hold my supplies tightly together, I heard my grandmother in the hallway outside my door. I smiled to hear her up so early. More and more, she'd slept later, sometimes not waking until an hour past dawn. I remembered that when I first came to live with my grandparents, she would always pull me from my bed no later than a half hour before the sun lit the arctic horizon. Grandma hadn't said anything, but I'd noticed that small tasks like preparing dinner taxed her far more than they once had. She was aging, and I knew that neither she nor my grandfather would be around forever. No one ever is. 

A pang of guilt assailed me at the knowledge of what I was about to do. I was going to abandon my grandparents for probably at least six weeks, possibly forever if the worst happened. I hadn't slept the night before, wondering what they would do without me. 

They'd come to rely on having a young man around the house to help. Without me there, was Grandpa going to have to chop wood for the fireplace? Was Grandma going to have to move the heavy sacks of flour and rice she purchased every autumn? Who was going to thread needles for them and read the fine print on labels? If I didn't come back.... 

No. I was coming back. I was well prepared, and if there was one thing I knew, it was that a Mountie doesn't worry about what he leaves behind. That only ties him down, and he needs to be looking ahead, to his goal...to justice. Maybe I wouldn't have my chance at the red serge for another three years, but I was the son of a proud RCMP Sergeant, and a member of the Boy Scouts of Canada. I could no sooner turn a blind eye to criminal activity than order my heart to stop beating. 

My resolve strengthened, I hefted my bag from the bed and headed to the kitchen. The spicy aroma of sausage melded with the light vapor rising from the kettle of chamomile tea and the wholesome richness of flapjacks with sweet maple syrup. I indulged in a deep breath, memorizing the mingled scents of a homemade breakfast, something I knew I wouldn't be getting again for quite a while. 

"Good morning, Grandma." 

Hearing my greeting, she turned from the stove where she was flipping the golden flapjacks. Her eyes narrowed in disapproval behind the wire frames of her eyeglasses as she took stock of my appearance. "Come here, Ben," she snapped. 

I immediately obeyed, submitting to her scrutiny at such close proximity that I was certain she could count the individual fibres in the fabric. The displeasure in her expression was growing by the moment, and I almost winced when she looked up into my eyes. 

"Where do you think you are going dressed like that? You look like some kind of ragpicker!" Suddenly, she noticed the unruly dark curls sprawled over the top of my head. "Not to mention that you seem to have forgotten why God gave us combs." 

"I didn't want to risk my good sweater on this trek, Grandma. I'll be crossing some rather questionable terrain." It was true, I told myself. Technically true, that is. The possibility of damage HAD crossed my mind...briefly. But I was aware that this was the first time I had bent the truth - even a little bit - since I was six years old and fed my birthday present to a passing walrus. For obvious reasons, that hadn't been something to which I had admitted readily. 

Nothing I had told my grandparents about this excursion was precisely a lie. I had told them it was a Boy Scout trip, something to which they were quite accustomed, and so it was, at least in my mind. What I hadn't told them, however, was what, specifically, made this trip different. I had assumed that if they were informed that I planned on infiltrating a violent group of practicing criminals and delivering them via a yet unknown method to my father and the RCMP, they might not respond in an entirely positive fashion. They might even have locked me in my room and barred the door until I regained my sanity to their satisfaction. So I waited anxiously as Grandma looked at me, knowing that I was a truly terrible liar, even on a not-quite-lie like this. 

Finally, she pursed her lips and turned back to the stove with a small sigh. "These Scouts are just Innusiq, Quinn, and yourself, correct?" 

"No one else." Another technical truth. Not only would there be no others, there would be no Quinn and Innusiq. My heart was threatening to pound out of my chest, and I felt sweat slicking my palms. Were a mouse to have appeared and startled me, I think I would have dropped dead. 

Grandma nodded and scooped two large, fluffy flapjacks onto a plate. A pat of creamy butter was dropped on top, and before it even had a chance to melt, she ladled on a measure of warm maple syrup from the saucepan. Two fat sausage links were plopped down beside them and they rolled into the puddle of maple syrup, small halos of sage-flavored grease appearing around them in the amber liquid. She thrust the plate into my hands and pointed me towards the table. "As long as no one else sees you looking like that, Ben, I suppose I can let it go this time. Lord knows it's expensive enough buying you clothes without letting you tear up your good ones." 

"Thank you kindly, Grandma." Taking the plate, thoughts of technical honesty were soon drowned out by my growling stomach. In my nervousness the night before, I had been unable to eat any dinner, and my body was reminding me that had not been appreciated. I savored each bite, trying to burn the flavors into my memory. Before I knew it, I was sopping up the last drops of syrup. For a moment, I regarded the plate in genuine puzzlement, wondering how I had managed to consume the meal so quickly, or how I was somehow still hungry. Feeling terribly greedy, I blushed as I look up at my grandmother. "Could I...um, do you have any leftovers?" 

Her look alone told me the answer to that, but before I could feel disappointed, Grandpa nudged my arm. I looked over, and his blue eyes were twinkling with the mischief I so rarely got to see. He speared a cake with his fork and transferred it to my plate. "Martha forgets sometimes what a growing teenage boy can put away up here in the North," he whispered, then looked dolefully at his own portion, "...though sometimes I think she forgets it's been fifty years since I was a teenager." 

We shared a secret smile at this, but by the time Grandma looked to see what the whispering was about, all she found was composed faces and quiet eating. I knew she knew what Grandpa had done - after all, flapjacks do not magically manifest themselves on grandsons' plates - but she pretended she didn't notice so she could let it slide. 

It seemed just a normal morning, no different than thousands of other mornings I'd spent in that kitchen with those two people. They had no way of knowing I was hungry for more than breakfast that day. They didn't know I was memorizing every line that life had carved into Grandma's face, every facet of Grandpa's deep, graveled voice, every nuance of that room, that cabin, that life. 

I knew that day might be the last day I spent as Ben Fraser. The moment I left that cabin, I would become Dan Troop, a pseudonym chosen from the pages of Captain's Courageous. Dan Troop was a boy who held his own in a man's world, working side by side with them on every dirty and dangerous aspect of their lives. I may not have been pitching cod on a dory off Puget Sound, but I would have to become a man very quickly, or risk losing my life before it really began. 

I only wished my father could have been there to see it. 

* * *

"Here you go, Mac." I set the meat down in front of McDonald, absently scratching my old friend behind the ears. 

The husky dove into it eagerly at first, then seemed to notice me crouching next to him, watching. Grandpa used to say that nothing would get between one of those legendary sled dogs and their food, but I knew McDonald was special. He'd been more than my pet, he'd been my friend for nine years already, and he treated me like his own pup. His intelligent ice-blue eyes were quizzical as he looked over at me, his head cocked as if to say 'what's the matter, Ben?' 

I sighed, flopping down on my back on the tundra to look up at the stars. We'd been trekking for three days already, and Mac obviously knew something big was up. "You understand, McDonald, that I have to do this. I don't mean to drag you into it, and you can go home if you want to..." He whimpered. "All right then, if you insist. But if you're going to stay with me, you'll have to understand that this is different. I know it seems like just another one of our little campouts, but I'm on the trail of some men, Mac, and I'm probably going to find them tomorrow." 

Something warm and furry nudged under my arm, and I laughed as I looked down into Mac's compassionate eyes. His priorities were still what they always were...the meat was gone, and now he was attending to me. I sat up, burying my face in his thick ruff. "You're staying, right, Mac? Good boy. I'm going to need all the help I can get for this one." 

He lay down beside me, and I lay down as well, my thick parka protecting me from the frigid ground as I pillowed my head on Mac's warm side, feeling the rhythmic rise and fall of his ribs under me. The stars shone brightly above us, the clear, cold air providing no barrier to their light. Thanks to those stars, I knew I'd never be lost for long. Not lost in terms of location, at least. 

At the moment, I was fairly lost in terms of emotional direction. Part of me said that I was a boy, fifteen years old, about to do the stupidest thing of my entire life something that could quite possibly result in the premature ending of said life. Another part of me said it would be well worth it to stop those men from systematically flaunting the law and destroying the delicate Arctic ecosystem. Behind those voices, I heard the faint stirrings of another: a quiet, traitorous voice that had been whispering to me more and more often. It asked if my father would even notice, whatever resulted from this dangerous undertaking. 

"Mac," I asked quietly, "Do you think that if Innusiq and I are right, and they really are poaching seals...and if I can stop them...do you think Dad would come home?" He snorted softly, clouding the cold air in front of his muzzle. I sighed. "I know. Doesn't matter. But do you think they really are doing it? What if they aren't?" 

White Glacier Hunting And Fishing was a well-respected organization, the largest legal hunter of wild animals in the Northwest Territories. Every year, they legally hunted and trapped hundreds of animals, selling their hides, meat, antlers, and bones for a thousand different uses. They supported several local Inuit villages by buying caribou from them, and they had never failed to pass an RCMP inspection. I was beginning to wonder if I was not completely crazy confronting them. 

All I had to go on was three hairs. Three tiny white hairs that Innusiq pulled from the rawhide netting of a dogsled when he was there to sell them a caribou he'd shot. We thought they were baby seal hairs, but what if we were wrong? What if those hairs belonged to some other animal, and White Glacier was every bit as pure as it appeared on the surface? I would have lied to my grandparents, more or less run away from home, and tracked these hunters across the tundra for no good reason. 

On the other hand, I was absolutely sure they were baby seal. So was Innusiq. Even Quinn positively identified them, though we didn't tell him where we'd gotten them. If Quinn said it was seal, that was almost as good as the hand of God reaching down and identifying the species in golden letters. The hunting of baby seals is completely prohibited. Unlike some other species like grizzly bear or wolf, the limit on baby seals is an absolute zero. If they were doing this, I knew they must be stopped, and I intended to be the one to stop them. 

White Glacier had been hiring local Inuit boys as hunters, using their knowledge of the game and landscape to bring in animals with unmatched efficiency and precision. Innusiq said they even offered him a job. But he was sixteen, an age I wouldn't see for another six weeks. Not to mention that not even a blind man could mistake me for an Inuit from a hundred paces in the dark. Snow white skin and blue eyes do not tend to be Inuit traits. 

My only hope for being hired as one of those young hunters was to prove to them that my skills were every bit as good as any Inuit. I knew that wouldn't be a problem. Innusiq and Quinn were the only two people I knew who could out-track me. I could even out-track my father on occasion, but I forgave him for that. He never studied under Quinn. No, hunting ability wouldn't be any sort of barrier to my being hired. Age, however, was another matter. They wouldn't take a boy until he was sixteen. 

I got up, crossing my tiny camp in only three strides. My bedroll sat in a tent that was little more than a lean-to, and I reached under the blanket, where my pack was serving as my pillow. Rummaging in the contents for a few moments, I pulled out my shaving mirror, something I brought just in case. I turned the little piece of glass back and forth appraisingly, my image reflected with surprising clarity in the Arctic starlight. "If I weren't me," I asked aloud, "...and in fact, if I were a complete stranger who had never met me, and I had no idea who I was, or how old I was for that matter, how old would I say I am?" 

The depressing answer was fourteen. My height and the depth of my voice ruled out twelve or thirteen, but the smoothness of my cheeks and body, and the little-boy shape of my face made fifteen debatable and sixteen utterly ridiculous. So I knew that if they were to believe I was older, I'd have to carry it off in attitude. 

McDonald nudged my arm, and I turned to him. "Mac, you're going to have to help me with this...I need to look older. Furthermore, I need to create the impression of being a miscreant, someone you would be happy to hire for the purpose of breaking the law." I could swear the husky rolled his eyes at this, but I ignored him. 

Standing, I assumed what I felt to be a deviant posture. My grandmother had told me that gentlemen never slouch, so I deliberately allowed my shoulders to hunch forward. I glared threateningly at Mac, my hands shoved deep into the pockets of my parka. "Hey," I said gruffly, lowering my voice and mumbling a bit, "I'm here for a job. I have absolutely no problems breaking the law if need be. In fact, I enjoy it. I would be happy to mercilessly club seals for you." 

Whining, Mac rolled over and covered his face with his paws. I sighed miserably. "That bad, eh?" His blue eyes fixed on mine, assuring me of the true horror of my performance. 

Again, I flopped down on the snow. I was pouting, and I knew it, but it didn't seem fair. I knew that I could expose this operation, I knew that I had the skill and bravery to do it. How absurd to be hindered by an annoying inability to produce facial hair! 

The campfire had died down, and I poked at it, pulling a few blades of frozen tundra grass and tossing them in. I watched them dance and crackle, wondering what I could possibly do to strengthen the odds of success. 

The next thing I knew, I was face down on the tundra. Mac was on top of me, his huge paws planted in the middle of my back. Crying out in mild annoyance, I rolled over, only to find myself staring at a lolling pink tongue that promptly slicked wetly down my cheek. Mac bounded off me, standing a pace away with his chest and front paws lowered to the ground, his back end wagging fiercely in the air. 'Let's play, Ben!' 

"You're going to get it, Mac!" I scrambled to my feet and ran after him, catching the deviant beast with a flying tackle. We wrestled playfully, my laughter and Mac's barking undoubtedly frightening most of the local animal population. Finally, we rolled apart, and I was panting as hard as he was. I reached over, ruffling his fur. "What do you think you were doing, jumping me like that? You think you can just demand to play any time you feel like, and it will right the situation? You've got another think coming, Mister." 

We lay there for what seemed like hours, just looking up. I could here Mac snoring, and I felt a stab of envy for my canine friend. I knew I really should get some sleep too. After all, one way or another, I was going to meet up with White Glacier tomorrow, and then....well, no telling what could happen. 

* * *

I can't believe how close I came to making one heck of a big mistake. 

A little after noon, I arrived at White Glacier's base camp. They'd chosen an old ghost town in a valley about sixty kilometres from my home and a good eighty from Tuktoyaktuk proper. In the late nineteenth century, it had been prosperous and bustling, fueled on the Yukon gold rush. Nearby, a mine burrowed beneath the tundra, its ore long since depleted. 

The miners' cabins and the old saloons no longer saw the drunken revelry of recreational prospectors or felt the shimmer of gold dust on their floors. Instead, the old cabins sheltered furs and carcasses, their sturdy wooden walls still amazingly intact because of the Arctic conditions. The saloon served as White Glacier's headquarters, and the old bank had been converted into a bunkhouse for the hunters. The mine was boarded up loosely, but the boards had been pried away and the first cavern walled off to give the sled dogs a shelter. I admired the resourcefulness, but there was a dark pall over the clever work because of what I suspected they were concealing. 

I crouched behind a stone outcropping, unconsciously rubbing Mac's soft fur as I watched them. There didn't seem to be anything overtly threatening about the operation. Smiling slightly, I reminded myself that of course there wouldn't be. After all, this was a well-respected group. They weren't about to go slaughtering any boy who walked into the camp. Not unless he started trouble. 

Right then, I could have turned back and no one would have been the wiser. I could even have walked right into the saloon, asked for a job, and if I was turned down, the worst that would have happened was that I would have been sent home. The only real danger, I decided, would come after I was hired, and even then, only after I had witnessed definite criminal activity and was honour-bound to take action. 

That logic calmed me for the moment, and I stood up, centering my pack on my shoulders. I took a deep breath and looked down into the scoop of the valley. My mind was rehearsing the lie I had prepared as to my origins, my lips moving soundlessly as I tried to make the words flow smoothly and naturally. 

I had only taken one step forward when I realized my error. With remarkable speed, I threw myself back around the rock. My heart was pounding in my chest, and I slowly turned, only leaning out enough to confirm what I had seen. 

A figure stood in the center of camp, deep in conversation with a tall man bundled up in an old army greatcoat. It was a boy about my own age, his long black hair flowing loose over the hood of the parka that was pushed back off his head. I had only caught a glimpse of his profile when he had turned to point at something, but that glimpse had been enough to give me quite the scare. To say the least, it had seemed a familiar face, a face I had known since I was a small child: Innusiq. 

I watched the boy intently, trying to see if it really was him. Soon, he turned again, and I saw that, while there was a strong resemblance, this native youth was not my friend and playmate. My heart slowed its desperate pace, but I still realized my error and the calamity it might have caused. 

All it would have taken was for one person in that camp to know me. One person to wave and call out "Hey, Ben," and the entire ruse would have been destroyed. I was desperately thankful that it hadn't been Innusiq after all, and I resolved not to waste that stroke of luck. Quinn would call it an omen, and I had no intention of ignoring it. 

Mac seemed to sense the fright caused by my near-miss, and he nuzzled my cheek, lapping at my face with his tongue in sympathy. I pulled back with a smile, rubbing at the wetness. "Not now, boy." He looked disappointed, so I offered him my gloved hand to lick instead. At least that wouldn't get cold and red from dog slobber. Grandma always knew when I'd been playing outside with Mac, as she said my cheeks looked like ripe apples. 

I waited there all day, watching men and boys come and go through my telescope, my most prized possession. It was made of dark, well-seasoned walnut and brightly polished brass and was over a century old, and I still felt the same pride as when my father gave it to me for my twelfth birthday. He had told me about its history in the Fraser family, and I remembered the awe I felt when he told me about the Fraser that had carried it on the great ride of the Northwest Mounted Police in 1873. The brave men of that organization would later become the RCMP, and I was proud to be part of that line of lawmen. 

_Someday, I'll be a Mountie, too_ , I told myself. When I closed my eyes, I could almost see myself wearing the red serge tunic, Constable Benton Fraser. I'd gain a reputation every bit as legendary as my father's, and the Fraser family name would continue to strike awe into the hearts of criminals throughout the Northwest. I knew that, like my father, this was where I would take my post. In these dark woods and on these snowy plains, I could track the shadow of a wild animal, so a frightened lawbreaker would be no difficulty. And like my father, I would always bring them in alive, ready to face their crimes. 

_Perhaps we will even work together_ , I speculated. *If I can show myself good enough, the RCMP might be willing to assign us as a team, and my father might accept me as his partner. He will only be forty-six when I graduate the Academy, so it might happen. Might.* I shook my head, forcibly dispelling the daydream. These were the thoughts of a silly, sentimental child, and I knew I'd have to be an adult to accomplish my present mission. 

By the time the shadows cast by the sun were taller than the men who cast them, I still had not seen anyone I recognized. I decided that I couldn't afford another night camped out this close, as if I were found it would be too difficult to explain why I hadn't come down to the camp. It was time. 

My mouth was dry as dust when I tried to swallow, but I forced myself to be calm and cool. Taking up my pack again, I winced as I stood. Cramps had seized my legs from the tight position I'd held behind the rock, but I just bit my lip and moved forward. The first few steps were unsteady, but I ignored the stabbing ache and gestured back to Mac. He was fast asleep, and I snapped my fingers in annoyance. "Eddie McDonald!" 

Languidly, the canine opened one pale blue eye, assessing how much I meant it. My own blue eyes communicated my intent quite clearly, and he grumbled his displeasure as he rolled to his chest and shook himself. Inwardly, I was grateful for his recalcitrance, as it gave the ache in my legs a chance to abate, but I couldn't show it. Mac was a strong willed, stubborn dog, and if he sensed that I was not one hundred percent serious about every command, they became suggestions. He didn't have much of an obedience rate for suggestions. Again, I pointed to the ground beside me, the signal for 'heel'. "Mac!" 

As if he had been frozen to the ground, he rose, shaking once more before he finally dragged himself over, shooting me a disgruntled look as he reached my side. 'There,' he seemed to say, 'are you satisfied?' I offered a quick scratch behind his ears to acknowledge that I was pleased with his eventual arrival, then squared my shoulders and headed down into the valley. I heard him following behind me as I knew he would. The only problem with Mac was getting him moving. After that, he never gave any trouble. 

Well...most of the time. There was that one incident with the... Best forgotten. The poor creature did grow most of its hair back eventually, after all. 

I tried not to look apprehensive as I entered the camp. A few heads turned as I passed by, but all of the men and boys seemed absorbed in their work. One young Inuit, about seventeen, offered me a gap-toothed grin that was almost a leer, then elbowed the other young man who was helping him tie caribou hides into bundles. He whispered to his friend, and my sharp hearing caught that it had something to do with 'a present for Charlie'. The other man laughed and showed the same almost-leer, but I decided to ignore them. It seemed to be an inside joke. 

My hands were shaking by the time I reached the erstwhile saloon, and I kept one jabbed deep into my pocket as the other rose to knock on the thick wooden door. I knocked twice, then the door creaked open, and I could tell the noise was caused by the aged wood rubbing, not by the new and well-oiled hinges. Thoughts of door construction were soon banished from my thoughts, however. 

The man standing in the doorway reminded me quite strongly of a bear. He was massive, over two meters tall, and his shoulders nearly brushed the wood on either side of the opening. I tried not to let my mouth fall open as I looked up into his weathered face, the deeply tanned and lined skin surrounded by a wild growth of black beard and long, uncombed hair. A beaver hat rested atop the tangled nest, and the ear flaps were pulled down, even indoors. His gray eyes narrowed as he looked at me. For a moment, I imagined that I could see his mind turning through its options, and I prayed that none of them included smashing me on the spot. 

Finally, he grunted, pulled off the beaver hat, and scratched at his head with dirt-caked nails on rough, calloused hands. "Boy." 

Such deductive skills. I decided not to comment on that, however. It wouldn't be polite. "Yes, sir." 

Several more seconds passed as he processed this new information. "New boy." 

I nodded. "Yes, sir. I hope so. I'm here to inquire as to possibly obtaining employment." 

His eyes widened, and I got the sudden impression that my vocabulary might have blown a fuse or two. Quickly, I rephrased. "A job. I'd like a job." 

This he understood. I think he smiled, because part of the beard moved in an upward direction, and he turned into the saloon, motioning for me to follow. "Come see French." 

I followed, pulling back the hood of my parka as I stepped into the warmth of the saloon. The main room had been converted into a dining hall, several long tables lined up and flanked by benches. The bar displayed only a few bottles of alcohol, but mostly piles of utilitarian dishes and glasses that I assumed were used to set the table. I glimpsed several offices through the open doors surrounding the main room, and it was towards one of those that Bear led me. He didn't go in himself, but pushed the door open and called to the person inside. "Boss...new boy. Wants job. Put him back?" 

The voice that responded was friendly and rich, instantly making me think of a man who can be as silly as Uncle Buck while maintaining the reserve and intelligence of my father. "I need a break from these books anyway. Go ahead and let him in, Horatio." 

Waving a massive paw in the direction of the open door, Horatio walked over and plunked himself down with a crash at the end of one of the benches. He was still watching me, and I suddenly felt as though I was trapped. The way he was looking at me, I wondered if he knew that it was generally frowned upon to mutilate anyone who weighs less than your big toe. 

I shook my head, remembering that he was not the reason I was there, impressive though he may have been. As professionally as possible, I stepped into the office. A fire crackled brightly in the fireplace, casting a warm glow over a man sitting at an old-fashioned roll-top desk, accounting books spread before him. The sleeves of his flannel shirt were rolled up, showing strong, muscular forearms, generously coated with red hair that caught the firelight and seemed to form a golden-red aura over his skin. He was broad shouldered and tall, but nothing like Horatio. I guessed him to be only about eight centimeters taller than myself, perhaps twenty kilos heavier. His face was genial and round like a young Father Christmas, his eyes bright. Like Horatio, he sported a beard, but this one was short and neatly trimmed. 

I had to remind myself that this was probably a ruthless poacher and criminal mastermind. He waved for me to come closer, then stood and extended his hand. I offered mine, and he shook it firmly and exuberantly. "George French, White Glacier Hunting and Fishing." 

"Dan Troop, sir." No fiery hand struck me down for the lie, and it was a little easier to continue. "I heard you were hiring boys, and I was wondering if I might...." 

French offered a sympathetic smile. "You come far, Dan?" 

"Kind of, sir." 

"I'm sorry. We're only taking Inuit boys. Hunters, you see. They know the land, the game." He shrugged, "I'm sure you're a fine lad, but..." 

"I can hunt, sir." 

"I'm sure you can." 

"I can hunt as well as any boy you have." 

His brown eyes widened, and he sat down, rubbing thoughtfully at his beard. When French spoke again, his voice was more subdued. "That's quite a boast, Dan. These kids have been romping the north woods since they could walk." 

"So have I, sir." I surprised myself with the forcefulness of my own voice. 

French's eyes seemed to penetrate my brain and dig around at will within my skull, and I felt sweat begin to slick my palms. "You don't look like any Inuit I've ever seen. Where are you from?" 

That was it. Breathing a silent prayer that God would understand I was doing this for a good reason, I took a deep breath and gave French my rehearsed story. It was as close to the truth as possible, as I knew I couldn't deliver a complete fabrication with any credibility. "Alert, sir. Inuvik before that. I lived with my grandparents after my mother died when I was little. My father's a hunter, and I've been taught by the Blackfoot and the Inuit since I could walk. I can hunt, trap, track...please, sir, all I'm asking for is a chance." 

He considered this, drumming his fingers on the pitted wood of the old desk. "What brings you all the way out here?" 

"I ran away from home, sir." I looked down at my boots, feeling my cheeks heat, hoping he would attribute my discomfort to being a runaway. If all went well, that would also provide him incentive to use me on the seal hunts. No runaway in his right mind would go to the RCMP, as it would be a sure ticket home. 

"And you're how old?" 

"Sixteen, sir." I met his eyes, and we both knew I was lying. Still, he didn't dismiss me immediately. Instead, his gaze was thoughtful. 

"Take off your coat." 

My eyes widened in surprise. "Sir?" 

French motioned impatiently towards my thick parka. "Take off your coat and roll up your sleeves, Dan. I want to see if you've ever done any work, or if you're all hot air." 

Nodding, I removed the parka and quickly unbuttoned the cuffs of my shirt, rolling the sleeves up just past my elbows. I fisted my hands to make the muscles of my forearms stand out and proffered my arms towards French. His inquisitive eyes traced the lines of my upper body. I knew I was in good physical shape, with stamina and strength to match that of any of my Inuit friends. My shoulders and chest had not yet broadened like a man's, but I knew that French could tell that I was accustomed to hard work. 

Without saying a word, he took one of my hands, turning it over in his own calloused mitt. My nails were extremely short, my fingertips roughened and blunt. Not the hands of a city boy. I thought I saw approval in the brown eyes as he sat back down, leaning back so that the front legs of the chair were off the floor. "You'll go with Egingwah tomorrow. He's seventeen, the best hunter I've got. If he says you're any good, I'll think about it. Have you eaten tonight?" 

The question took me by surprise, and I actually had to think about it a moment. "No, sir." 

"Charlie will get you something to eat and a place to stay tonight." 

"I brought food, sir," I assured him quickly, "and I have a tent." 

His voice was firm. "Charlie will get you some food and a place to sleep. I'm not going to have you out in some little tent." 

Also, I realized, he wouldn't have me out of anyone's sight until he knew he could trust me. Not wanting to make him second-guess his choice, I nodded. French cupped one hand over his mouth, filling his lungs to let out a bellow that seemed to threaten the integrity of the old saloon. "Charlie!" 

A voice sounded behind me in the doorway. "Really, Dad, I'm right here. No need to yell." 

Shocked, I whirled around, my eyes fairly bugging. The 'Charlie' standing in the door was nothing like I had expected. Only a little shorter than myself, about the same age...fifteen or sixteen. Slender but strong-looking, with a mass of dark curls loosely framing a fair-skinned face with large brown eyes. Oh yes, and very much the wrong gender. 

My throat seemed to constrict, and I wondered who sucked the oxygen from the room without warning me. No matter how I tried to discipline them, my eyes insisted on wandering the lines of her snug blue jeans, following the long, slim legs to the small waist. Her plaid shirt was tucked in, the top two buttons left undone in a way that emphasized the shape of the torso beneath the flannel fabric. Full lips curved up slightly in her pretty face, and I came to the shocking realization that her eyes were taking a very similar path on me. Our eyes met, and I swallowed hard, suddenly much less curious and much more afraid. She was looking at me the way Mac eyed his dinner. 

Her smile widened with the predatory pleasure of a wolf on the hunt, and her eyes darted only briefly towards her father before resuming their lock on mine. "Hire him, Dad." 

* * *

"Is that your dog?" Charlie asked upon seeing Mac answer my whistle after we exited the hut. 

"Uh huh. His name is Mac. McDonald, actually, but Mac for short." 

"Does my dad know you've got a dog?" 

"He won't be any trouble." 

"That doesn't answer my question." 

"No, he doesn't know. The subject didn't come up." 

"Ah." She eyed me and Mac, then, with a wave of her arm, said, "Okay, follow me." 

Carrying my pack, I followed Charlie as she proceeded across the compound. Out of respect, I made sure to stay at least a few paces behind her. At one point, when she glanced to her side and didn't see me, she came to a halt and turned full around, so I stopped as well, taking a step or two backwards to maintain a respectable distance between us. 

"Are you coming, or what?" she queried. Her hands were perched on her hips so tightly that her parka conformed to the curvaceous outline of her body as she stood with head and hips cocked in a most inviting yet terrifying manner. 

"I'm right behind you, Miss." 

"The name's Charlie." 

"Yes, Miss Charlie." 

"No, no Miss. Just plain Charlie." 

"Understood." 

She shifted her hips and rolled her eyes. "Look, kid, I don't want to lose you, so try to keep up, okay?" 

The 'kid' remark really hurt. I knew she couldn't be any older than me -- or not much older, anyway. She did have an air of sophistication about her, though, which intimidated me a bit. I put it down to the fact that she was at home there while, in a sense, I was as far from home as I had ever been. "Don't worry, I won't lose you. I can track a prey as good as anyone." 

She chuckled loudly then put her hand to her face to stifle her mirth. "A prey? Is that what I am?" 

I almost lost the strength to carry my pack as all the blood in my body raced to my cheeks. "No, no, um, that's not what I meant." 

"Then what did you mean?" 

"Um, just that I'm following you. That's all." 

"Well, follow closer. I haven't got all day to wait for you." 

"Yes, Miss....um, I mean, yes, Charlie." 

She stood staring at me and then said, impatiently, "Well?" 

"Sorry?" 

"You haven't moved closer yet," she pointed out with a tone that seemed almost flirtatious. 

Very self-consciously, I took several steps toward her. I couldn't bring myself to look her in the face, so I kept my eyes trained elsewhere. That was a mistake. Charlie was directly in my line of vision, so my eyes had nowhere else to wander but over her body and, although I wasn't aware of it, they appeared to be enjoying what they saw peeking out from underneath her unzipped parka. 

"What're you staring at?" she asked as I approached to within a few steps of her. 

"Huh?" I answered, lifting my eyes to hers for a second and then averting them to one side of her. "Um, nothing. I wasn't staring." 

"I know when a guy is staring at my chest, and you were definitely staring at my chest." 

"No. No, I wasn't. Honest. My eyes were just, um, looking in that direction, I guess." 

"Yeah, they sure were. You better hope my dad doesn't catch you leering at me, or he'll beat the crap out of you." 

"Understood." I shifted uneasily, not even daring to look in her general direction. "Shall we, um, will you show me where I'll sleep now?" 

Charlie turned her back to me then swivelled her head around, looked me up and down quickly yet meaningfully, and ordered, "This way." She was about to start walking, but paused a while longer and looked back at me once again to tease, "I'll go slow so you can keep up." 

"Now, look here, Charlie," I began, with slightly raised voice. I had had enough of her patronizing attitude and was going to tell her to cut it out, but my resolve was suddenly shaken and I just stood there, looking at her. 

"Something wrong, kid?" she asked in the most innocent of voices. 

"No, no...yes." I took a deep breath and blurted out, "I'm not an idiot, you know. And I'm not a kid. I'm a, um, a man." 

"If you say so." 

"I do. I might look young, but you'll see, I'm just as much a man as anyone else around here." 

She let out a sardonic laugh and shook her head. "That's not saying much." 

"What do you mean?" 

"Never mind. Forget it. We'd better get moving if you want supper. The kitchen'll be closing soon." 

"Charlie?" I called out as she was about to resume walking. 

"Yeah?" 

"Um, I didn't mean to, um...I hope I didn't say anything to offend you." 

Her face lit up as she smiled a smile of pure delight. "No, you didn't. You say you're older than you look? Well, I'm a lot tougher than I look. I learned a long time ago that a thin skin breaks too easily. Believe me, you couldn't offend me if you tried." 

"But I would never _try_ to offend you." 

"Never say never. You might eat those words." 

"No, I won't." 

"You don't even know me." 

"I know it's ungentlemanly to offend a woman." 

"Who told you that?" 

"My grandmother." 

"Your grandmother?" 

"Yes." 

"How sweet." 

"Sorry?" 

"Don't get me wrong, it's just that most guys I know -- well, if their grandmothers ever told 'em anything like that, it must've gone in one ear and right out the other." 

"I'm sure that can't be the case." 

"Are you calling me a liar?" 

"No. No, certainly not." 

She stepped very close to me and stared me down. "You don't get around much, do you?" 

"Around? Yeah, sure. Just last summer I hiked the Mackenzie Trail all the way from Inuvik to Yellowknife and back. All on my own. Well, me and Mac." 

Charlie stared at me as if I were an alien being and then closed her eyes and shook her head to break the spell. "That's not exactly what I had in mind." She paused momentarily, in thought, then stepped even closer to me. So close, in fact, that our bodies were touching. "Suppose I came up to you and did this?" She unzipped my coat and slipped her hands beneath it. 

"What're you doing?" I asked, flinching at her touch and stepping back. 

"I'm a woman." She closed the gap I had put between us. "You say you're a man." She dipped the tip of her index finger into her mouth and then lifted her hand to my face and began to trace my lips with her moistened fingertip. 

"Uh, yes, but," I began, but had to clamp my mouth shut when her finger threatened to wander past my lips. I hadn't noticed that her other hand had resumed caressing me until the hand at my face drifted downward to join its partner. I was too flabbergasted to move, although I knew I should have stopped her. When one of her hands suddenly appeared between my legs, tantalizingly inching its way up the inside of my thigh, an indescribable force jolted me back, out of her reach. The blush that coloured my cheeks deepened with shame as I began to suspect that I had somehow subconsciously willed the course of that hand. I covered myself with crossed arms, fearing that what I was feeling would become visible. 

"You must be kidding me. No guy says no to that." 

"We've only just met." 

"So what? It's not like you have to marry me or anything. I was just trying to give you a little --" 

"It's unseemly," I interrupted her firmly. "Not to mention disrespectful of the lady." 

"The lady?!" she laughed. "You mean me?" 

"Well, yes, in this case." 

"Wow, you really are living in the dark ages, kid. Chivalry's been dead forever." 

"Please don't call me kid. Just because I...because I...stopped you, doesn't mean I didn't want...it doesn't mean I'm a kid." I spoke with urgency, hoping to expend some of the energy that was consuming me below the belt. I couldn't get the memory of her touch out of my head, and my body yearned for more of her. 

"Sorry. I didn't mean anything by it." She gently stroked my smooth chin and smiled. "But you must admit, that baby face of yours can really throw a girl. A whisker or two in place of that peach fuzz would help a lot." 

"Yeah, I suppose it would." I didn't take offense at her comment because her manner implied tenderness rather than malice. I wished I could show her the man behind the peach fuzz, the man who, at that moment, could do nothing but imagine what it would be like to kiss her. A kiss to her hand, even, I thought, as I took her hand from my face, held it firmly in mine for several seconds, then let it go at her side. My grandmother had made sure there was at least one chivalrous man in the world. _But why did it have to be me?_ I asked myself with frustration. 

"Already sampling the new merchandise, Charlie?" a young man two or three years my senior taunted as he approached us slowly. 

"Fuck off, Nielsen," Charlie rebuffed him, and my eyeballs almost popped out of their sockets to hear such language from a young woman. 

Nielsen laughed her off and walked a circle around me, appraising me with a cynical air. "You better go easy on this virgin boy. You might kill him, or at least do some serious damage." 

I blushed furiously at the reference to my virginity, which, no doubt, made it clear that Nielsen had been correct in his appraisal of me. Regarding my sexual experience, anyway -- or lack thereof. 

"Well, at least any damage to _him_ wouldn't be self-inflicted," she retorted, bringing a blush to Nielsen's face which rivaled my own. 

"Watch yourself," he warned me. "She'll eat you up then spit you out -- in more ways than one." He kneed me in the groin to clarify his meaning. After an angry glare at Charlie, he stormed off. 

"Don't pay any attention to him. He's a jerk," she told me. 

"It's probably none of my business, but are you two, um, sweethearts?" 

"Sweethearts! What the hell makes you ask that?" 

"The way he was, um, teasing you. My grandmother says that often when someone taunts you like that, it's because they like you." 

"You're right, it's none of your business." 

"Sorry." 

"Oh, never mind. It's all right. I guess you deserve an explanation after the way he treated you." 

"I couldn't help noticing he was a bit rude to you, too -- even if he does like you." 

"Oh, he doesn't like me, but he's as nice as anybody around here, I guess. Maybe you haven't noticed, but I'm the only female in this hell hole." 

"Um, yes, now that you mention it --" 

"So I get lots of attention, if you know what I mean." 

"Oh, well, that must be nice for you." 

"Oh, yeah, it's just dandy. Nothing makes a girl feel wanted like a horde of needy boys." 

"I'm not sure I understand what you mean." 

"Come off it, kid. Even if you are a virgin, you're a man. You must, you know, have needs." 

"Um, I can't complain. I mean, I've never starved. I've always had clothing and shelter to keep me warm. Anything else I don't really need." 

"Bullshit!" 

"Excuse me?" 

"It's a proven fact that humans need..." She advanced and started to touch me again as she pondered how to finish her sentence. 

"C-C-Companionship?" I suggested nervously, wanting, yet not wanting, to push her hands away. It wasn't a lewd touch this time, just some light rubbing along my arm, so I didn't interfere. 

"Yeah, companionship. Everybody needs that. I guess your grandma didn't teach you that, huh?" 

"No, um, actually, I have read something about that. Studies have been conducted which show that the human race is a, er, social species. On the whole, we're healthier and, um...happier if we have, um, contact with other people. That's why we crave the society of others." 

"So, whose society do you crave these days?" 

"I think you may have misunderstood," I coughed out uneasily. "You see, I was speaking in general terms, of our need, as a race, to, um, have, um..." 

"Contact?" she coyly finished my thought as I had earlier done for her. 

"In a manner of speaking." I took a step back, and she smiled and respected the distance I had put between us. 

"Do you think you'd be happier and healthier if you had contact with someone?" she asked. 

"Oh...um...well..." I was so embarrassed I thought I was going to die right then and there. If my grandmother had been there to hear that conversation -- well, let's just say I was grateful she wasn't. Not that I added much to the conversation. But, despite my panic, I couldn't help finding it stimulating in a way which would have been unbearable in my grandmother's presence. 

When I noticed Charlie's glance veer down my body, I abruptly pulled my coat around me and closed the zipper all the way to my neck. Charlie smiled sweetly at me, then averted her eyes. It was obvious that she felt bad for embarrassing me, and I decided at that moment that she was, at heart, a sensitive, caring person, despite the tough exterior she exuded. 

"Anyway, um -- don't ask me why I'm telling you all this since you're one of them but, that's why Nielsen, and the others, are such nasty bastards," she said, moving away and getting back to her original point. 

"Um...why?" 

"Well, polite people like you would probably call it 'frustration'." 

"Oh," I replied, blushing. "You mean they're rude to you because they don't have girlfriends?" 

"That's basically it, yeah." 

"Not only is that illogical, it's also extremely unkind and improper. My grandmother says a gentleman always puts the feelings of the lady first." 

"Your grandmother says a lot, doesn't she?" Charlie smiled and appeared to understand my intent to cheer her. 

I nodded and returned her smile. "Quite a bit, yes." 

"You believe everything she tells you?" 

"Um, well...it's not so much a question of believing her as it is obeying her." 

"You know, the great thing about grandparents is you don't have to listen to everything they say. I mean, it's not like with your parents." 

"Actually, it is, kind of, for me. I live with my grandparents." 

"Oh?" A look of realization came over Charlie's face and she blushed in embarrassment. "Oh, shit! You don't have parents?" 

"No, well, I have a father, but he's never...his work keeps him away from home. So, when my mum died, I went to live with my grandparents." 

"Your mum died? Oh, I'm such an idiot! You should punch me in the mouth when I say stupid things. Go ahead, sock me one. I deserve it." 

I stared at her in wonder, unable to fathom even the desire to hit a girl, let alone actually doing it. And besides, Charlie hadn't done anything wrong. 

"What're you waiting for?" she asked. 

"I'm not going to hit you, Charlie." 

"Why not? Just because I'm a girl?" 

"Not just that." 

"Chicken?" 

"No," I lied uneasily. "Look, even if you weren't a girl, there's no reason for me to hit you. You had no way of knowing about my mum, and I don't believe you were trying to hurt me. You were just...making conversation." 

"But I talk too much. If you give me a good smack, maybe I'll think before opening my mouth next time." 

"I don't mind you talking. It's, um, it's nice to have someone to talk to." 

Charlie was clearly taken aback. "I don't understand you. You're not like any guy I've ever known." 

"Yeah, well, um, I've never known a girl like you before, either," I admitted with hesitation. 

"I didn't say it was a bad thing you're...different." 

"Neither did I...about you, I mean." 

We both became very uncomfortable as we gazed at each other silently, until Charlie finally said, "So, what should I call you, kid?" 

"B--uh, Dan. That's my, um, name." 

"Okay, B--uh, Dan," she grinned and offered her hand in greeting, which I accepted. 

"Is your name really Charlie?" I asked. 

"Why would I lie about my name?" 

I shrugged and tried to ignore my overwhelming feelings of guilt. 

"It's short for Charlotte," she explained with reluctance. 

"Oh. Well, that's a pretty name." I sort of regretted the compliment when I saw how ill-prepared she was to receive it. But I couldn't take it back, and I didn't really want to. It was a pretty name...and she was a pretty girl. I'd never made a pretty girl blush before, and it felt pretty good. 

"Follow me." She took off with a determined stride and I followed behind, finding myself inexplicably captivated by the movement of her body and by a wish that said body had not been so obscured underneath a thick parka. 

* * *

"Take this one, here," Charlotte said, allotting me a cot in the corner of the bunkhouse. "The dog'll be out of the way here." 

"Thanks." I dropped my pack onto the cot then sat beside it and was startled to see that Charlotte was still standing there, watching. I quickly stood back up and coughed nervously as I wrung my hands behind my back. "It's, um, been a long day and I gotta be up early in the morning. I think I'll just go to bed," I announced, hoping she would take the hint. 

"But you haven't eaten." 

"I'll be okay. I've got some pemmican in my pack." 

"Oh, yeah, that sounds much more appetizing than a bowl of hot chili." 

"Hot chili?" I began to salivate at the thought. 

"Tuesday is chili night." 

"Ah, chili night." 

"You'll learn the schedule in no time. It never varies. If you ever forget what day it is, just check the menu." 

"Okay, I'll do that." 

A smirk of disbelief spread across her face. "Geez, Dan, lighten up. Don't you ever laugh." 

"Laugh?" 

"Yeah, you know, ha-ha! Laugh. People usually do it when something's funny." 

"I know. I laugh plenty of times." 

"Yeah? Good. I can't wait to see that. I bet you'd be pretty cute with a grin on your face." She let her tongue brush across her lips, adding a sensuousness to the coy smile she was bestowing upon me and sending me into a panic. 

"Uh...er...I, um..." I was at a complete loss for words, and, to make matters worse, Mac picked that very moment to jump on me, pushing me to the bed and slobbering all over my crimson face. Charlotte's obvious amusement at the sight initially embarrassed me even more, but as the sound of her gleeful laugh rang through my head, a strange sensation suddenly came over me. A sensation like none I had ever known. My desire to run from her sight as fast as possible changed in an instant to a compelling urge to kiss her. 

I had never kissed a girl before and, although I had been curious about the act for some time, there hadn't been a certain girl that had turned my curiosity into need -- until Charlotte. Perhaps it was having a wet tongue lavished upon my face that sent my hormones into overdrive. 

"Your dog really likes you, Dan," Charlotte laughed. 

"Yeah, especially when he's hungry," I joked, pushing Mac off me with a command to "sit," then standing and wiping my face with my sleeve. "You could at least show some manners in front of a lady," I admonished Mac with a stern glare. 

Mac whimpered and sat back, looking at me with expectation. 

"That's better. Now, after you show me that you can behave for a few minutes, I'll get you your dinner." 

"He's cute. Can I pet him?" Charlotte asked. 

"Um, sure, but later, okay? He's being punished right now and if you start petting him and stuff, he won't learn his lesson." 

"Punished? That's how you punish him? By just making him sit there?" 

"Yes." 

"And he obeys?" 

"Yes. Most of the time. You have to insist on discipline with a dog or he'll take advantage of you." 

"Just like people, huh?" 

"Yeah, I guess." 

We stood silent, ill at ease, as we each searched our brains for something to say or do to get us past this lull in the conversation. Charlie looked at me and caught my eyes indulging in her attributes, and I blushed shyly, like a little boy spied by the neighbor girl as he watched her squatting for a pee behind the shed. I don't know how it's possible, but I swear I could hear her smile as I stood there, studying the grain of the wood floor. 

* * *

Anxiety gripped me before I even opened my eyes the next morning. Rather oddly, I knew where I was almost immediately without the need for a visual reminder. Mind you, it wasn't being far from home that worried me. I knew I'd adapt quickly enough to my surroundings and the routine. What bothered me was that there was a considerable chance that I was going to have to do something which I knew to be wrong. If my suspicions about this group were correct, I was going to have to illegally and unethically slaughter seals, and, as much as I tried to ease my conscience with the knowledge that I'd be acting for the greater good, I wasn't convinced that I'd be able to go through with the act when the time came. _Am I man enough?_ I asked myself over and over again as I prepared for the day's work. 

"You Troop?" I suddenly heard a voice from behind while I was crouched to fasten my boots. I looked up to see a young man with long, black hair, which he was pulling back into a pony tail. 

"Um, yeah, that's me. Dan Troop." I stood and extended my hand to greet him, but it was several seconds before he shook my hand, as his dark eyes first gave me the once-over. 

"You're with me today. Ready?" He didn't offer his name which, apart from seeming a bit rude, raised suspicion about his character. In my experience, it's mostly people who have something to hide who try to keep their identity secret. But, then I realized I had no business sitting in judgment, seeing as I wasn't exactly presenting myself honestly. I didn't press the matter, but assumed he must be Egingwah, the hunter French had said I would partner with. 

"Yeah, I'm all set," I replied, slinging my rifle and pack over my shoulders and then turning to Mac. "Let's go, boy." 

"Hold it, man," Egingwah said. "Nobody said anything about a dog." 

"He won't be any trouble. He's actually a very good hunter, when he wants to be." 

"I'll have to clear it with French." 

"Oh, um, I already did," I lied. "He must've forgot to tell you." It boosted my confidence somewhat to prove to myself that I could stray from my deeply-ingrained moral code for the right cause. Perhaps I was up to this challenge. 

Only time would tell. 

* * *

No sooner had we left the bunkhouse than Egingwah pulled a small pouch from a pocket of his coat. I watched as he reached inside it and retrieved a hand-rolled cigarette. He caught me watching with interest and paused just as he was about to light the cigarette. 

"Help yourself," he said, tossing me the pouch and then lighting his cigarette. 

I fingered the pouch curiously as I tried to decide the best course of action. The fact was I wasn't a smoker. That is, Ben Fraser wasn't a smoker. His grandmother had seen to that. Dan Troop, however, was another story. Dan Troop was sixteen years old and had left home to find his own way in the world, unencumbered by family obligations and expectations. He wanted to experience all the things he couldn't experience at home. So, if Dan Troop wanted to be a smoker, who was Ben Fraser to stop him. 

"Thanks," I said with an air of nonchalance and then struggled to appear at ease as I helped myself to a cigarette and parked it between my quivering lips. I focused my eyes on the tip of the cigarette while Egingwah held the flame for me, but my eyes soon crossed, leaving me totally disoriented and adding to my sense of terror as I choked on the inescapable smoke surrounding me. 

"Christ, Troop, take it easy. You don't have to suck it all in at once!" 

"It's, um, stronger than I'm used to," I gasped out between coughs. That actually wasn't even a lie, strictly speaking. Heck, a candy cigarette was stronger than I was used to. 

"I paid a lot of money for that tobacco. It's prime stuff. Don't you know it's a crime to burn away a good smoke quicker than it can be enjoyed?" 

"Oh dear. I mean, yeah, sure, I knew that. Sorry. Guess I'm just a little nervous. First day on the job and all, you know." 

"Well, toke on that thing right and it'll relax you right up. Just take it slow and easy." 

"Perhaps this isn't a good time for a smoke." I held the cigarette close to my face and alternated blowing on it and carefully dabbing at the burning end with a fingernail. 

"What the fuck are you doing, man?" 

"Um, well, I thought I'd put it out and save it for later." 

"Are you nuts? You don't fucking put out a cigarette and save it for later. You fucking smoke it." 

"Ah, well, the thing is, I don't smoke this early in the day. Yeah, I forgot that. I just never smoke before lunch." 

"Then throw it away. Jesus!" 

I took a quick look around, then asked, "Throw it away where?" 

"Anywhere, man. Just toss it." 

"But, wouldn't that be littering?" 

* * *

So, that's pretty much how the morning passed. Dan Troop kept trying to prove his cocky worldliness, and Ben Fraser kept tripping him up. I did finally get Egingwah to reveal his name. I suspect my naivet, convinced him I was no threat. Although I was truly clueless at that time, I have since discovered that, in certain circumstances, a little innocence, played just right, can be a much more effective tool than a display of knowledge. 

I would have liked to have kept a diary of each day's events. Not only would it have helped me in my investigation, but it would have provided an accurate and detailed account of everything I witnessed which would have been useful in an arrest and trial. A diary was out of the question, however, for the obvious reason that if anyone had discovered it, I would've been in serious danger. There was a bright side to this, in that I gained invaluable experience in the storing of precise mental notes. 

As far as I could tell, everything we did on that first outing was on the up-and-up. We hunted game in accordance with all the regulations and it was all logged in and processed by the book back at camp. I felt I did quite well, too. Hardly spent a shot that didn't hit its target cleanly. Egingwah seemed pleased and decidedly surprised that he didn't have to show me how to track or how to handle a rifle. I was sure I'd made some points with him and with French and, if I bided my time with patience, sooner or later I'd be trusted with some of their more nefarious activities. If those nefarious activities were actually occurring, that is. 

My plan was to be as invisible as possible. I felt it was crucial that I not attract attention in any way, so I wanted to be wary of things such as doing extraordinary work or making a nuisance of myself. I had to blend in, be just one of the hunters. And this plan probably would have worked fine, except for one thing....well, two things. First, there was one beautiful, young girl. And second, there were the bourgeoning hormones of a curious adolescent boy. 

* * *

I ventured into the mess hall that night and found it eerily quiet. It was full of young hunters, and every last one of them had his eyes locked on me, whether he was in the midst of eating or moving through the queue. I self-consciously joined the line and felt a sudden kinship to George Orwell, who, I reasoned, must have gleaned the inspiration for his "Big Brother" from a similar experience. 

A hunter I had not met got in line behind me, so I offered a polite "Hello." 

"Uh huh." At first, he had appeared quite a bit older than me. His skin was rough and thick and his eyes looked as if they'd opened upon a lifetime of demanding mornings. 

"You worked here for long?" I asked. 

"What's it to you?" 

"Nothing. Sorry. I was just curious. It's my first day, you see." 

"No kidding." 

"Yeah, I'm Troop. Dan Troop," I said, offering my hand. 

He took my hand very briefly more a handbrush than a handshake. "Yeah, I heard about you. The runaway white boy who thinks he can be a big-shot hunter." 

I refused to let him see that the 'boy' remark hurt. "Right," I forced a chuckle. "Well, I'm sort of on trial. I have to prove I can do the work before French'll take me on permanent." 

"The line's moving." 

"Huh?" 

"The grub line," he said, with a wave of his arm to draw my attention to the fact that I was holding up the dinner line. "We'd like to eat tonight, if you don't mind." 

"Oh, sure. Sorry." I scurried to catch up to the end of the line, and, as I helped myself to a tray and a set of beat-up utensils, someone appeared from the kitchen, carrying a large kettle. To my surprise pleasant or no, I couldn't really say the someone turned out to be Charlotte. I watched with interest as she set the kettle on the Sterno and gave the contents a quick stir with the spoon. As I tried to work up the courage to speak, she splattered a watery mound of instant mashed potatoes into a bowl and topped it with a ladling of meat and gravy. 

"Well, look who it is!" she exclaimed as she thrust the bowl toward me. "B Dan!" 

"Hello, Charlie," I answered, taking the bowl from her with shaky hands, but failing to place it on my tray. "Actually, it's just plain Dan. I think I misspoke earlier." 

"Forgot your own name for a second, eh?" she laughed, oblivious to the irony. 

"Yeah, I guess," I blushed, the bowl of food still trembling in my hands. 

"Maybe that's 'cause you don't look like a Dan." 

"Huh?" 

"No, you look more like a....let me see...a Troy." 

"T-Troy?" 

"Or maybe a Shane." 

"This is real life, Charlie, not one of your romance novels," the boy behind me mocked. 

"Shut up, Agluulik," she replied. "No, I know," she said, turning her attention back to me. "I've got the perfect name for you..." 

"But " 

"Eugene!" 

"Eugene?" I scowled. 

"Yeah, why not?" 

"Because it's not my " 

"Anything but Dan. That just doesn't work." 

"But that's my name." 

"If you say so," she sighed in defeat. 

"Keep it moving, Troop," Agluulik urged. "We're hungry, here." 

"Oh," I replied, embarrassed into finally making a move. I settled the bowl onto my tray and coughed in an attempt to camouflage the rattling caused by my unsteady hands. "I beg your pardon." 

"Don't pay him any mind, Eugene," Charlotte advised. "They always give the new guys a hard time at first." 

"Not as _hard_ a time as you, though, eh, Charlie?" he answered with a loud, suggestive sneer, which set the entire room to laughing. 

I wished I could say something in defense of Charlotte's honour, but, as I said, it was imperative that I do nothing that might set me apart from the other hunters. So, to my shame, I kept quiet. 

Charlotte, however, didn't. 

"So, you're hungry, are you, Agluulik?" she asked. 

"You betcha! I could eat as much as you wanna dish out, Char!" he boasted, eliciting further guffaws from the assembly. 

Charlotte never lost her composure as she stood behind the counter, twirling the heavy ladle in one hand and smirking. Then she glanced at me and winked, and I had a feeling she was about to take her revenge. 

My feeling was correct. With the ladle, Charlotte dug a big mound of mashed potatoes and flung it, quite purposefully, at Agluulik, hitting him square in the face. 

"Care for seconds?" she asked, the ladle poised to make another scoop. 

* * *

I tried to keep my distance from Charlotte; I really did. After all, it was clear she didn't need any help from me in defending her honour. She was quite up to the task of holding her own against the rather uncouth gang that inhabited her world. It pricked my conscience that I remained aloof when she was treated with disrespect, but the fact of the matter was that I was there to investigate White Glacier's business practices, not their manners with a lady. I had to stay focused on that duty or I would never succeed. 

As hard as I tried to avoid Charlotte's company, she worked even harder to bring us together any chance she got. She instigated a conversation whenever she spied me, and if I failed to acknowledge her, she'd resort to making a spectacle of me -- which was the last thing I wanted or needed. 

During one such instance in the mess hall about a week after my arrival at White Glacier, it reached the point where I was feeling dangerously vulnerable, so I stammered an "Excuse me," and high-tailed it off to the other side of camp where I sought refuge behind the bunkhouse. My solitude was short-lived, however. I soon recognized the crunch of boots on the icy snow and turned to see Charlotte steadily advancing toward me. 

"So, you _are_ just like all the others, eh?" she asked upon reaching me. 

"Huh?" 

"You know, you could've just told me this was what you wanted instead of playing the shy, virgin act." She removed her gloves, letting them fall to the ground, and then pushed me up against the building. 

"Playing the wh what?" I stammered, frozen in fear as she began to stimulate me with a gentle rubbing of my inner thighs. "Charlie?" I questioned while resisting her attempts to strip me of my parka. 

"You gotta slip outta the suspenders, so I can get at you. Then you can put the coat back on, okay?" 

"No," I firmly stated as I wrapped my parka tightly to me. 

"Look, I don't know what kinky ideas you got, but I'm not sticking my head down your pants." 

"No, you most certainly are not!" I agreed, forcefully denying myself the thrill her prohibited suggestion threatened to conjure in my curious body. 

"So it's a hand job, eh?" 

"Huh?" 

"I guess I just assumed you wanted the other. Most of the guys do." 

"Charlie, I think you got the wrong idea, somehow..." I tried to explain as she snuggled up close to me, straddled my legs around hers, and attempted to slide her hands underneath the several layers of clothing which covered me. My reflexes, quick as ever, foiled her search for naked skin, and I triumphantly extracted her well-meaning hands and held them before her by her wrists. 

"Listen, Buster, those are your only two choices," she said severely, pulling free of my grasp. "I'm not about to let you have your way with me, so you either let me do my job or you can jack yourself off!" 

"Shh," I pleaded nervously, resisting the urge to cover her mouth with my hand. When she just stood there, looking annoyed and confused, I tentatively went to retrieve her gloves from the ground. "Here, put these back on before you get frost bite." 

She angrily refused the gloves. "Oh, I see. You got me out here just to humiliate me, right? Just so you could make me out to be some kind of whore while you're as pure as the driven snow. Is that it?" 

"What? No " 

"Well, fuck you, Dan Troop." And, with that, she ran off in a huff. 

I wasn't sure, but I thought I detected tears in Charlotte's shaky voice. It seemed that I had somehow hurt her feelings, and I had to remedy that situation, even if it meant going after her....which is what I did. I followed her to the cabin she shared with her father, but was too late to stop her from disappearing inside and slamming the door behind her. 

I peered through a window and found the front room completely dark. French was either not home or was in a back room. Not daring to risk confronting him, I trudged around the cabin, looking in windows for any sign of Charlotte. I found her lying in bed in a small room at the back of the cabin, which was dark except for the ray of moonlight that shone across the room and illuminated her glistening eyes. 

"Charlie...Charlie," I called out in a husky whisper as I tapped at her window. 

She took one look at me, then picked up the first object within reach which was a small alarm clock and hurled it toward me, shattering the window in the process. 

I jumped back and covered my face to avoid serious damage from the flying shards of glass. Once everything had settled, I lifted my head to look into the room again. Charlotte was standing at the broken window, her arms crossed defiantly before her. 

"Now look what you did!" she accused. 

"Are you okay?" I inquired as I fished the alarm clock from the snow. "Did I do something wr " 

"Give that back to me," she ordered, and I obeyed, cautiously moving to meet her at the window. She snatched the clock from my hand and immediately made as if to lob it straight at me again, but I cowered and held my arms out in a defensive appeal for mercy. 

"Take it easy, Charlie. Why are you so angry? What'd I do wrong?" 

"Fuck you, Dan Troop!" she repeated her earlier oath with even more venom. 

"Shh, please, Charlie, don't keep saying that." 

"Why shouldn't I?" 

"Well, for one thing, it's impolite, and " 

"I don't have to be polite to you. You're a creep. You're even worse than the others. You brought me out there just so you could insult me." 

"I beg your pardon, but I didn't bring you out there, Charlie." 

"Of course you did. That's...that's where...they all bring me there." 

"Who does?" 

"The hunters, you numbskull. Who do you think?" 

"You mean you...they...um..." 

"Don't pretend you didn't know." 

"But I didn't....know. Honest." The truth was, I had, on the odd occasion, heard sounds that could be described as moans emanating from behind the bunkhouse, but I had refrained from investigating due to a sneaking suspicion that I might unwittingly find myself encroaching on one of my fellow hunters' privacy. Heck, as Charlotte had pointed out during our first meeting, boys my age had...urges, and, despite my inability to admit it to her or, for that matter, to pretty much anyone, including myself -- I was all too aware that those urges required tending once in a while. But it had never entered my mind that Charlotte was in any way connected with the moans. 

"What the hell's up with you, anyway?" she scolded. 

"What do you mean?" 

"You can't be as clueless as you act. Or maybe that's it, eh? Maybe you don't know nothing because you got nothing. Are you still a little boy, Dan, is that it? You still got nothing to show the girls?" 

"To show...?" 

"Afraid I'll tell everybody you're a freak who doesn't have what a real man has?" 

"I've got everything I'm supposed to have," I boasted quite uncomfortably. 

"Yeah? Let's see." 

"You don't really mean that." 

"Of course I do? Why wouldn't I?" 

"Because it would be improper." 

"Improper for who, you or me?" 

"Both of us. A gentleman doesn't, um, flaunt himself before a lady." 

"Flaunt, eh? It's that good, then? Or are you just a tease?" 

"Discussing this would also be improper." 

"Ha, if it was _that_ good, you'd wanna do a lot more than discuss it." 

"Charlie, I would never..." 

"You'd never what, virgin boy?" 

And there I was again, being too much Ben Fraser and not enough Dan Troop. But there was no way around it. Dan Troop would just have to live with Ben Fraser's decision on this matter. "I'd never, um, ask that of you. Not unless...well, you know..." 

"Unless what, Dan?" 

"Unless we were...you know..." I had to avert my eyes to say the final words, "...in love." 

Charlotte leaned out the window to get closer, wrinkled her brow, and studied my face for several seconds before finally pulling herself back inside. "You ever been in love?" she asked. 

I squirmed and coughed, the Dan Troop in me loath to admit to his chastity. "Er...not really." 

"Never?" her voice betrayed surprise. 

"Well, gee whiz, I'm not all that old, you know. I'll be in love some day. My dad says it's just a matter of waiting for the right girl to come along. You can't very well be in love if the right girl hasn't come along. That's how it worked for my dad. He wasn't in love 'til he met my mother, and as soon as he saw her, he knew. He knew she was _the_ girl." Yes, I was blithering. I was a bit anxious, to put it mildly. 

"And you expect me to believe you're not gonna let any girl touch you until _the_ girl comes along?" she said, very skeptically. 

"Don't you see, Charlie. I'd be insulting you if I did, um, let you...you know. I'd be using you for my own....selfish...um...I wouldn't be showing you the respect you deserve." 

"Respect? Now you're saying you respect me?" she asked, incredulously. 

"Of course. That's what friends do....respect each other." 

Charlotte said nothing, but after a few seconds, she disappeared into the dark of the room without so much as a wave to send me away. I waited a moment, but when she failed to return, I started to make my way back to the bunkhouse. 

"Dan!" she suddenly called me back before I had gone very far. 

"Yes?" I answered, turning back toward the cabin. Although it was dark and she was at some distance, I could discern her hand sweeping across her cheek, as if to dry it of tears. 

"Come here a minute." 

I complied, fairly certain she no longer posed a threat to my safety. "Yes, Charlie?" 

She was the picture of vulnerability as she stood there at the window, one arm reaching out so her hand could clutch the window sill while her head settled against the window frame with an air of fatigue. "Did you mean that...about being friends? I mean, are we friends?" 

"Um, yeah, I meant it. I'd like to be your friend." 

"I can't imagine why, now that you know...what I am." 

"You're a person, just like me." 

"Oh, come on, I'm hardly just like you. You're good and I'm...not." 

The irony of her words gnawed at me because I was very conscious of the fact that I had basically been lying to her since the moment we met. "Don't say that." 

"Why not? It's true." 

"No, it's not. Nobody's perfect, Charlie. I'm certainly not." 

"But you're a lot closer to it than I am. Anybody can see that." 

"That's not what I see." 

"Oh? What do you see, then?" 

"You really wanna know?" 

"I asked, didn't I?" 

I took a few steps closer to her and spoke softly, afraid I might be speaking out of turn. But she had asked. "Um, okay, well, I see a nice girl who lets others decide that she's bad and so, um, she thinks she has to do bad stuff. She doesn't realize it's up to her to decide who she is and what she will or will not do." 

Charlotte was quiet for a moment as she appeared to consider what I had said. "Maybe you don't know me as well as you think. Eh? Before you decide I'm a 'nice girl,' maybe you should know me better." 

"Sure, but by the same token, I could suggest that you should know me better before you decide I'm 'good.'" 

"Touch,," Charlotte smiled in response. "So, when do I get to see the _real_ you?" 

"Huh?" I asked, momentarily tricked into fearing she somehow knew about my entire ruse. 

"You know, the not-so-perfect guy who's just like me," she teased with a good bit of sarcastic self-deprecation. 

"Oh, him." 

"Yeah, him. Where is he?" 

"He's right here." 

"Well, he sure is real good at hiding himself." 

"Don't worry, you'll see him." I was painfully aware of the truth of this statement. As soon as I succeeded in my mission to expose her father for the criminal I suspected he was, Charlotte was going to know me for the phony I was. I dreaded that moment. 

"When?" 

"How about we make a deal?" I suggested. 

"What kind of deal?" 

"You show me the nice girl and then I'll show you the bad boy." 

"I'm not so sure there is any nice girl." 

"Sure there is, Charlie. Just be you." 

"Who do you think I'm being? Mother Teresa?" 

"I don't know, but you don't seem very happy." 

"And that means I'm not being myself?" 

"Well, maybe. I just thought it might be worth thinking about. You know, who you really wanna be, in your heart." 

"Yeah, well, you're not exactly Mister Sunshine, yourself, so maybe you're not being who you really wanna be in your heart, either, huh?" 

I shuffled my feet and kicked at the ice as my mind raced for something to say. The trouble was, I had already said too much. I was blowing my cover. Surely, the boys she knew, the tough, young hunters, never spoke to her of such things as who they wanted to be in their hearts. I had set myself apart from the other hunters, which was exactly what I had needed to avoid. 

"Um, I'd better be going," I said, hoping if I disappeared quickly she might forget at least some of the glimpses of Ben Fraser I had stupidly revealed to her. 

"Wait, Dan," she called out after I turned to leave. "Does that mean, um...are we friends?" 

I cleared my throat and nodded anxiously. "Sure, um, why not." 

"Okay," she replied after a brief pause. "So, uh, in that case, can I ask you something?" 

"Uh huh," I replied with obvious dread. 

"I'm curious. If you weren't expecting me to follow you, why did you... run off behind the bunkhouse?" She spoke with a tender sincerity the likes of which I had not heard from her before. 

"Oh, it was nothing." I couldn't tell her I had been trying to escape her attentions; that would've been cruel under the circumstances. "I just wanted to be alone...for a while." 

"Alone?" 

"Yes. Sometimes it's the only way I can think about things." 

"What things?" 

"Oh, you know...whatever needs thinking about at the time." 

"You do that a lot, don't you? Thinking, I mean." 

I shrugged, but refused to allow myself to say any more. 

"Does it do any good....thinking about things?" 

"Sometimes." 

"Could you show me sometime?" 

"Show you?" 

"I won't try to take your clothes off, I promise," she joked. "I just want to see what it's like, this being alone, to think about things." 

"Oh, well, yeah, sure. I'm no expert, but I guess if you wanna come along sometime to, um, be alone, that would be okay." 

She smiled and finally had the strength to lift her head. "Come closer," she beckoned with an inviting wave of her hand. 

I stepped as close as I deemed proper, and she leaned out the window and bent down to sweetly kiss the top of my upturned face, steadying herself by wrapping her arms around my neck. I was so glad for the darkness, as it hid the embarrassing blush that overcame my normally pale complexion. 

"Wh what's that for?" I asked, as she still embraced me. 

"For not being like the others." 

_Oh hell! I really messed up!_

* * *

I was awakened the next morning by a summons from French. In order to please him with promptness, I scrambled to get dressed and over to his office. I had proved myself a willing and able hunter during that first week, so I had high hopes that I had earned French's trust and might soon be taken into his confidence. I still wasn't sure how I'd find the strength of conviction to perform acts that offended my sense of ethics, but I'd worry about that if and when the time came. First things first, my father always said. Target your criminal, then track him down, then bring him in. 

Imagine my surprise, then, to discover that I was on the verge of being fired. And not only fired, but kicked out with a decidedly unfriendly boot to the backside. 

"I don't understand, sir," I blubbered in a panic. "I've followed all your orders and proved that I can trap and hunt as well as anyone, haven't I, sir?" 

French grunted and slammed a small object onto a table in front of me. It was an alarm clock -- the very same alarm clock which Charlotte had thrown at me the previous evening. "What do you know about this, boy?" he growled angrily. 

"It's an alarm clock, sir. A broken alarm clock, sir," I noticed upon further inspection. 

"How'd it break?" 

I hesitated then finally replied simply, "I couldn't say, sir." 

"Then I'll tell you how, you little chicken-shit. It broke last night when you used it to smash my little girl's window." 

I didn't know what to think. Clearly, he hadn't witnessed my meeting with Charlotte. If he'd had reason to believe I was menacing his daughter, he wouldn't have waited until today to take me to task. So, had Charlotte told him something and, if so, what? She had seemed sincere about wanting to be friends, so would she have tried to get me into trouble and possibly fired? 

"If I could explain, sir " 

"No one, but no one, touches my girl! Especially not some cowardly, green boy like you." 

"I beg your pardon, sir, but I haven't touched your daughter." 

"You calling my daughter a liar?" 

"No, sir, certainly not. Um, did she tell you I touched her, sir?" 

He stared at me silently for several seconds, intentionally torturing me, before he finally stated, "She told me you broke her window." 

"Oh." 

"You gonna deny that, too, boy?" 

"Um, no, sir." It occurred to me that Charlotte may have needed a scapegoat, so, since I had claimed to be her friend, I wouldn't let her down. I would take the blame. "It wasn't intentional, sir." 

"Eh?" 

"It was an accident." 

"How do you throw a clock through a window by accident?" 

"Um..." I squirmed as I asked myself the very same question. 

"Get out of here, boy!" he commanded. 

"Sir?" 

"You got work to do. Get to it. And the clock and window comes out of your pay." 

"Yes, sir." 

"Be warned, Troop, if you wanna stay on here, watch out, that's one strike against you. One more and you're out." 

"Doesn't it take three strikes for an out, sir?" 

French sauntered up to me and put his face right in mine, so close that I could count his nose hairs. "All right, since you're the expert in striking out, how many strikes 'til I get to beat the holy shit out of you? Eh?" 

I gulped and tried to moisten my dry mouth. "Um, I was out of line, sir. I apologize." I kept my eyes locked on the wall behind him, but I could still see his angry scowl. 

"You're a real smart-ass, ain't you? Well, don't you worry, I know how to deal with a smartass." 

I gulped again as I continued to stand at attention. "I'm out, sir?" 

"Oh, no, Troop. No, no. I got a job for you. A real job for a smart-ass. A man's job." 

* * *

The job, of course, turned out to be the very job I had simultaneously sought and feared. So, I had done it, after all. I had convinced French I was the kind of man for his special team. Dan Troop was, in French's eyes, a baby seal hunter, a law-breaker, a man of negligible moral fibre. Boy, how I wished I could leave Dan Troop behind and take myself home. 

* * *

As I entered the bunkhouse, the room fell immediately quiet and then the sounds of snorts and chuckles began and continued to grow as I slowly made my way across the room with my head bowed self-consciously. 

"Your girlfriend's here to see you, Troop," Agluulik bellowed. 

"Huh? My wh " I looked up and locked eyes with Charlotte, who appeared almost as uneasy as I, as she sat on my cot under the protection of Mac. For once, she had no rejoinder to the taunts of the boys. 

Charlotte stood up as I reached her and took my hand to lead me aside for as much privacy as was possible. "Do you hate me now? Please say you don't hate me," she begged, squeezing my hands in hers. 

"Charlie, of course I don't hate you. What're you talking about?" 

Charlotte hesitated as she looked into the room and over the many boys who had dropped everything to eavesdrop on us. She set her jaw and shouted to them, "My dad's in a real foul mood today, guys so, believe me, you don't want me telling him how you all stood around doing nothing all morning." 

"We're just waiting for Troop," Nielsen explained. "Someone's gotta look out for the new boy 'til he learns the ropes." 

"He's learned 'em just fine, Nielsen," she defended me until I broke in. 

"Um, it's okay, guys, you can go on ahead. French is reassigning me today." 

"Eh? Reassigning you where?" Egingwah asked. 

"Were you a bad boy? You get put on kitchen duty?" Agluulik guffawed, followed by mocking laughs from the entire room. 

I coughed and prepared to speak over the noise. "I'm going up north." 

Again the room fell silent as all the boys looked at me in disbelief. "Up north? You? No fucking way, man," Agluulik said. 

"Those were his orders," I stated. 

Charlotte squeezed my hands again to get my attention. "But you can't, Dan." 

"Why not?" I asked, studying her face for any sign that she knew what going north entailed and wondering if she would admit to the knowledge. 

"You been hunting barely a week," Egingwah said. "Only the best, most trusted hunters get sent north." 

"How come? What's so special about hunting up north?" 

"French didn't tell you?" 

"No, um, not specifically. Just that it was a real man's job." 

"You saying I'm not a real man if I ain't been sent north yet, virgin boy?" Nielsen asked angrily. 

"No, no...but, um, look, guys, it wasn't my idea. I'm just following orders." 

"Dan, I have to talk to you," Charlotte whispered in my ear. 

"Yeah, Troop, you give your girl a big good-bye kiss 'cause you won't be coming back," Egingwah advised. 

"French says I'll be gone two, maybe three, weeks." 

"We'll see about that, we'll see." Egingwah shook his head despairingly then, with a wave of his arm, beckoned to the others, "Let's go, guys. We got our orders, Troop's got his." 

The boys muttered their displeasure and shot me angry parting glances as they took up their gear and made their way out of the bunkhouse. 

"Egingwah," I called out as he saw the last of the hunters out the door. 

"Yeah?" 

"Um, have you, you know, been up north?" 

Egingwah heaved his pack over his shoulders then looked me in the eyes steadily for several seconds. He headed through the doorway and was about to close the door when he looked at me again, nodded his head once, then disappeared. 

"Dan, you can't," Charlotte repeated, tugging on my arm as I still gazed at the door. 

"Huh?" I blinked rapidly to return to the present and get my mind off Egingwah's prediction which hung eerily in the air, forcing me to ask myself *What if he's right? What if I never return?* 

"Please don't go, Dan," Charlotte pleaded. 

"I work for your dad, Charlie. I have to go where he sends me." 

"What did my father say to you this morning?" 

"He told me to pack a few weeks' supplies and report back to him for instructions." 

"Did he say anything else.....about me? About....last night?" 

I nodded slowly. "Uh huh." 

"What?" 

"Um, I suppose the same thing you told him about last night," I answered softly, hoping I didn't appear angry. 

Charlotte pulled away and stood with her back to me. "I did it for your own good, Dan. You have to believe that." 

"For _my_ own good?" 

"I, um, I thought he'd fire you. I didn't think this would happen." 

"You wanted me to get fired?" 

"This isn't the place for you." 

"But I'm a hunter, a good hunter." 

"Then you should hunt for someone else, but not here." 

"I'm doing pretty well here, I think. I mean, look at me, I've only been here a week and already I've got an assignment that boys who've been here a lot longer have never been given." 

"I know." Charlotte turned and looked at me. "Please don't take the job." 

"I don't have a choice. Your father said either I take this assignment or I can consider myself fired." 

"Then let him fire you." 

"But why, Charlie? I don't understand. Why would I want to leave just when your father's trusting me with an important job?" 

"I...I can't tell you why." 

"I thought we were friends," I reminded her. 

"We are. That's why I'm telling you to get out of here. Can't you just trust me?" 

"I do, Charlie. I trust you." I gently pushed her hair off her face and saw fear in her eyes as she looked at me, so I smiled to ease her mind. "If I didn't trust you, I would've told your father you lied about what happened last night," I pointed out. 

"You mean you told him what I said was true?" 

"I let him believe so, yes. I figured you had a reason for telling him what you did." 

She sighed with deep frustration. "You're too good, too trusting." 

"No, not always. But I do believe you have to give people a chance. You can't think the worst of everybody." 

"It's a lot safer that way," she said. 

"It might seem so, but, you know, people have a way of living up to your expectations. So, if you think the worst of them, that's what you'll get. But if you look for the good, you just might find it." 

"Let me guess, that's some of your grandmother's wisdom?" 

"It's the truth." 

"No, it's not that simple. You can't make somebody good just by wanting them to be. Believe me, I know that better than anybody." 

"What do you mean?" 

"Nothing. Never mind. Just listen to me. You have to go. Get out while you can, and don't ask any more questions." 

"I can't. I'm sorry." I headed toward the exit and Mac bounded after me. "No, Mac," I said. "I can't take you with me." I glanced quickly at Charlotte and then crouched to talk to Mac. "You'll be okay here, boy. Your food's under the bed." I took another suggestive peek at Charlotte until she saw me, and then I looked back at Mac. "Someone'll " 

"I'll take care of him for you, Dan," Charlotte finally offered. 

"Oh, um, I don't want to put you out. One of the guys " 

"It's no problem. I love dogs." 

"Oh. Well, if you're sure..." 

"Don't worry, he'll be fine." 

* * *

Within the hour, our team of four was dispatched. In addition to our packs of personal provisions, we were outfitted with two dog-sleds which carried additional supplies. I had never seen the likes of some of the hunting tools, but I recognized them from Innusiq's descriptions of the illegal slaughtering of baby seals. So, although no one had yet filled me in on the particulars of our special team's job, I was more certain than ever that the suspicions that had led me to my current situation were soon to be proved valid. 

_Now what?_

* * *

It took us nearly three days of almost constant travel to reach the sea. We drove in shifts, and there were regular breaks to rest and feed the dogs, as well as a longer break during the night so that we all, dogs and men, could have a few hours of sleep. At first, I feared we were pushing the dogs beyond their endurance, but I was assured by the veterans that the dogs were up to their task. My own mettle was put to the test the first night when I was assigned to drive one of the sleds for the first shift of darkness. We made even better progress during those four hours than we'd made during daylight, and I think it truly surprised them all to discover that I wasn't totally helpless in the wilderness. 

I kept to myself as much as possible during those three days, making only as much casual conversation as was needed to keep the other hunters from doubting that I belonged with them. It wasn't that I intended to be antisocial, but I was too aware that soon I'd be faced with probably the biggest dilemma of my life, so there was a lot of soul searching to be done. To that end, I needed to block out anything and everyone else and just commune with myself. The difficulty, of course, was in ascertaining whether it was truly myself with whom I communed. Many voices spoke to me in that silent reverie, but I couldn't be sure they were all friendly voices, despite how much I may have wanted to believe what any particular voice told me. On the other hand, there was the quandary of listening to voices I didn't want to hear, let alone heed. 

"Troop, see to the dogs. We'll set up camp." Roberts was the leader of our group, a transplanted southerner, like French, who had found his way north to make his living. He and a couple others who had founded White Glacier with French oversaw these northern excursions. I think they were the only men who had French's complete trust. 

I followed all orders without question. It was good practice for the moment when the unthinkable would be asked of me. The moment when I would have to become an outlaw. 

* * *

That moment was not long in coming. As it was still hours until dark when we were settled in our camp among the seaside crags, it wasn't permissible for us to idle away the remainder of the day. 

"All right, men, listen up," Roberts said as he threw a heavy sack at my feet. "Kunuk, you and Betters head down the east shore. Troop and I'll cover the west." He looked at me very deliberately as he added, "Okay, boy, distribute the weapons." 

"Sir?" 

"The weapons, boy. In the sack. Jesus, you think the little bastards are just gonna follow us back to camp without a little, er, persuasion?" 

"No, sir, I mean, yes, sir, right away." I crouched to open the sack, my eagerness to obey impeded by my realization that as soon as I put one of those weapons into the hands of a criminal, I would have to live with the knowledge that I wasn't blameless for the use that was made of it. 

"Is there a problem, Troop?" Roberts prompted me. 

"No, sir." I stared at the assortment of clubs and picks and wondered why it had to be so brutal. A well-used rifle was so much cleaner and quicker. However, I wasn't stupid enough to make such a suggestion to these men. 

"Then get a move on. Daylight's wastin'." 

"Yes, sir." I reached into the sack, fingering the instruments as I clenched my jaw. "Um, who gets what, sir?" 

"No matter. Hell, forget it. Just take yours and we'll all grab what we need." 

I nodded and looked dolefully at the clubs and picks. The sharp-ended picks reminded me of the bayonets I had seen pictured in my grandmother's textbooks on warfare, and I felt I was finally getting a true sense of what it meant to be a soldier facing the heat of battle. 

"Quick, boy!" Roberts screeched, accompanied by a solid kick that sent me, face-first, into the snow. 

Startled and dazed, I got back into my crouch and brushed the ice from my face but didn't let on that I feared he had injured my tailbone. The way I figured it, I would soon deserve much more than a little discomfort, so I had no right to complain. With forced determination, I took a club from the sack and scrambled back to my feet, leaving the remaining weapons to my companions. 

"Christ Almighty!" Roberts cursed, shaking his head. He grabbed a pick and shoved it into my hand. "This is no prissy-boy work, Troop. You gotta show 'em who's boss." 

I nodded and regretfully slung the weapons over my shoulder by their straps. It felt like they were burning right through my parka and into my flesh, but I knew that was just the workings of my guilty conscience, so I tried to ignore the weapons for as long as possible. 

* * *

Just shy of three weeks later, we arrived back at White Glacier base. 

"How'd he do?" French inquired as he met us at the abandoned gold mine which I discovered was not only used to house the dogs, but as a processing and storage facility for the illegal seal catch. I was glad French hadn't addressed me directly, as I feared I would've lost all self-control if forced to speak to him. I was seething with hate. Hate for him for what he had done to me and hate for myself for being so totally self-absorbed that I could be more devastated by my own fate than with the fate of the baby seals we...I...had slaughtered. 

"Good as anybody. Hurled his guts the first time, but, Christ, he sure could torture the poor little fuckers. I think we got us a born sadist!" 

Everyone but me chortled at that. I hadn't meant to torture the animals, of course, but the cruelty inherent to the business of baby seal hunting was so antithetical to the person I was that my hesitance in doing the job ironically resulted in prolonged suffering to my captives. 

"Ha," French laughed, "...you see, Troop. I told you I could put that smart-ass streak in you to good use." 

I mumbled a disgusted, "Yes, sir," and kept to my task of unloading the carcasses while the others continued to enjoy their good laugh at the expense of Ben Fraser and the dead baby seals. 

* * *

I didn't have the stomach for supper that night, so while most of the camp retired to the mess hut, Mac and I went for a quiet walk up into the surrounding hills. It was a dark night and I felt I might, at last, be able to escape into a world of my own for a while. After what I had seen and what I had done during the past three weeks, I wasn't sure that world of mine could ever exist again, but I had to seek it, nonetheless. 

The sky was overcast, with stars appearing and disappearing as the clouds moved quickly from horizon to horizon. Soon it would be December and the days would get even darker and colder, and I would have my sixteenth birthday. _Will I be home, celebrating with my friends?_ I wondered. 

My grandparents had given me permission to spend my birthday camping out with Innusiq and Charles. I was the last of us to turn sixteen, so the guys wanted to make a big deal of it. For weeks, they had been teasing me with hints about some sort of ritual they were planning to make me undergo on the big night. I must admit, the almost-sadistic glee they seemed to take in warning me of their secret plan disconcerted me a little. I was fairly certain I'd play along with whatever they had cooked up, but I couldn't help suspecting their motives weren't entirely noble. 

I couldn't worry about my sixteenth birthday celebration at the moment, however. In fact, the thought of marking that milestone in any way filled me with overwhelming dread. The man I had seen myself become was frightening to behold, so the last thing I wanted were the good wishes and congratulations of the family and friends with whom I had grown up. 

"Dan?" A tender voice, something I had not heard in what seemed like forever, suddenly spoke out of the blackness. "Dan, wait up," the voice spoke again. 

I turned around and squinted into the darkness, pretending not to recognize Charlotte's voice. "Who's that?" I asked as Mac ran over to greet her. 

"Who do you think?" she replied, obviously hurt by my distant attitude. She caught up to me and grabbed onto my arm so I couldn't turn from her. 

"Oh, hi, Charlie." 

"What's the matter?" 

"Nothing. Um, thanks for taking such good care of Mac while I was gone." 

"It was my pleasure." 

"He's, um, he seems quite smitten with you. You must've treated him well. He probably never even missed me." 

"I...did," she said. 

"Did...what?" 

"Missed you." 

"Oh? You did?" 

"Did you...miss me...at all?" 

"Um, uh huh." 

"No you didn't." 

"Yes, I did. I did, Charlie. Very much. Honest." 

She smiled and threw her arms tightly around me, almost as if holding me in place, buried her face against me, and began to weep. 

"What's wrong, Charlie? What did I say?" 

She didn't answer, but shook her head and continued to hold onto me, sobbing. Mac jumped onto her, whining to show his concern. 

"Down, boy," I ordered quietly and then held onto Charlotte, ostensibly to offer comfort, although I was also seeking comfort myself. "What's the matter? Has something happened?" 

Charlotte drew back from me and dried her eyes as she spoke. "Sorry. I didn't mean to do that." 

"Are you all right?" I asked, handing her my handkerchief. 

She nodded as she wiped her face. "Can I walk with you?" 

"Aren't you supposed to be helping with dinner?" 

"I don't care about that. I'd rather be here with you." 

"You might get in trouble if your father finds out. You know, I don't think he likes me. In fact, I'm pretty sure he hates my guts." 

"So what? He hates everybody, but I hate him even more." 

"Charlie! He's your father!" 

"That doesn't mean he can tell me who I can be friends with. We are friends, aren't we?" 

"Sure, but " 

"Well, that makes you the only real friend I've ever had besides Mac," she added at his insistence, "so if I want to go for a walk with you, no one's gonna stop me. Especially not my dad. Let's go," she said, urging me along. "Let's walk to the other side of the world." 

"Tonight?" 

"Well, at least around that hill so we can't see the camp and they can't see us. You can show me how to be alone, like you promised. Remember?" 

"Okay." I took her arm in mine and guided her safely through the dark night. 

* * *

Charlotte was apparently a very quick study, as she seemed to take to being alone with me quite naturally. We walked arm in arm, but didn't speak for a long while, preferring to share silence. Now and then, Charlotte would grab onto my arm, as if to assure herself that I was still with her, and I would respond by holding her closer. By the time we had put about four kilometres between us and base camp, our bodies were practically entwined as one. 

"Aren't the lights beautiful tonight?" she asked, bringing our silence and our walk to a halt. 

The sky was, indeed, alive with shifting, brilliant colour, the earlier clouds having passed into the distance. "Uh huh," I agreed, wondering how long I could justify prolonging our intimate embrace. I felt complete in a way I had never before imagined possible. It was like I suddenly had this other half of me and I needed to hold it snugly to me lest I lose it and return to incompleteness. 

"Let's rest for a while and watch," she suggested. 

I led her over to a ledge which overlooked the camp and helped her to settle against the rock face. After sitting beside her, I wrestled with how best to provide gentlemanly support, but taking her arm in mine as before didn't feel quite sufficient. Just as I was recalling how my father would cradle my mother in his lap, Charlotte snuggled back against me, her head on my chest. 

"Is this okay, Dan? I'm so...tired, and you're so strong." 

"Um, sure, but, um, maybe we should go back, if you're tired." 

"No, no, not yet. It's peaceful here. Let's stay for a while, just you and me. Alone." 

"All right. It is kind of nice," I admitted as I took her to me and she folded her arms around mine. We watched the Northern Lights in silence and I gradually inched my head down to rest beside hers. I could feel her warmth and longed to take her even closer in a kiss. But I had never kissed a girl. Not the kind of kiss I wanted to give Charlotte. The gentle, lingering kiss that says 'I need you.' So my fear of the unknown kept me at bay. *What if I don't do it right? She'll think I am a little boy.* 

"I wish I never had to go back there," Charlotte said, breaking me from my fantasy. 

"Where do you want to go?" 

"Anywhere, so long as my father's not there." 

"Charlie..." 

"Yeah?" 

"Um, is your father...does he...mistreat you?" 

"What do you mean?" 

"Well, you know, does he, um, hit you or...anything?" 

"Nah, he doesn't beat me. And he's not a pervert, either, if that's what you're getting at." 

"I'm sorry. I probably shouldn't have asked you that." 

"Why did you?" 

"I don't know." 

"Bullshit!" 

"Huh?" 

"You must've had a reason for asking. What was it?" 

"Because I, um, you know...like you, and I'd hate to think of anyone hurting you." 

"That's very sweet," she smiled. "But what made you think my dad...hurts me?" 

"Um, well, because of the way you talk about him. I mean, he's your father, but you said you, um, hate him." 

"That's right. But don't worry, the feeling's mutual." 

"Surely he doesn't hate his own daughter." 

"Look, Dan, I know you're just trying to help, but I think I know my father better than you do." 

"Yes, of course. I didn't mean to " 

"I know you didn't. Forget it, okay?" 

"You know, I often wonder how my dad feels about me. Sometimes I think he must hate me because he spends so much time away from home. But then I think maybe he doesn't hate me. Maybe he just doesn't care one way or another." 

"That's not much better," she said. 

"No." 

"So where is he if he's not home?" 

"Working." 

"What's he do?" 

"Um, he's a hunter." 

"Oh, I see, like father, like son, eh?" 

"Yeah, something like that." 

"Funny...I hate my dad 'cause he's always around and you hate yours 'cause he's never around," she mused. 

"I don't hate my dad. I love him." 

"Why?" 

"What do you mean, why?" 

"It doesn't sound like he gives you any reason to love him. I mean, you're not even sure he loves you, so why should you love him?" 

"Geez, Charlie, I just do. Do I need a reason to love my own dad?" 

"Okay, okay, don't get all pissy." 

"I'm not. I'm not angry at you, Charlie. I just think love is something, you know, that just is. You can't always explain why you love someone. Sometimes you just do, even if it doesn't make sense." My words seemed to echo through the night, confronting us with a dark truth about love. 

"Yeah, okay," Charlotte conceded. "But maybe you're lucky your dad's never home, you know? I mean, if it's true he doesn't care about you, you'd probably hate him after a while." 

"Sometimes I get angry at him, so angry I _think_ I hate him, but I know I don't really. I don't believe I could ever really hate him." 

"Well, I really hate mine. _Really_." 

"I'm sorry, Charlie," I offered my sympathy with a gentle hug. 

"It's not your fault he's a hateful bastard." 

"I know, but...I don't like to see you like this." 

"Like what?" 

"So full of hate." 

Charlotte turned her body around to face me, her eyes severe and questioning. "You hate my father, don't you?" 

"Um, well..." 

"You must hate him...now that you've...worked for him." 

She had me there. Truth was, I hated her father as much as she did. For some reason, it just seemed worse coming from his own family. "You know what, um...what he makes us do...up north?" 

She nodded almost imperceptibly. "He's so damn proud of that. And he expects me to be proud of him, too. But I can't. I despise him and what he does...what he makes you guys do. He's evil." 

"Yeah, maybe, but hate is destructive," I replied, as much to convince myself as her. "It doesn't do anybody any good." 

"Then how are we supposed to feel about people like him?" 

I shrugged, at a loss to reconcile that one. "I guess we just have to find as much to love as we can." 

She wrapped her arms around my waist and slid herself closer to me. "Show me." 

"Show you what?" 

"How to love." 

"Um," I coughed anxiously, wondering if she was suggesting what I thought she was suggesting. "I'm not sure, um, how I can show you that. I mean, it's, um--" 

She stopped my mouth with the tip of her glove and then tenderly cupped my face with her hands. Our eyes spoke to each other of fear and longing as she drew my face toward hers until our lips met in mutual uncertainty. Charlotte's reticence, however, was soon revealed to have nothing to do with inexperience as she took it upon herself to infuse the kiss with some passion. Much to my dismay, I was unable to do anything but passively enjoy the sensations of her touch. I was immobilized by a fear that any clumsy movement on my part would spoil the experience for Charlotte. 

"Hmm, who's showing who about love, eh?" she asked demurely after momentarily relinquishing my lips. 

"Sorry," I whispered from my blushing face, certain I had proved my inadequacy and lost her interest. 

"Don't be." Smiling, she pulled me close and kissed me again but halted almost immediately, leaving a space between our faces that was all but non-existent. In fact, as she spoke, her lips brushed and teased mine much as a piece of irresistible bait lures a hungry, yet suspicious, fish. "Don't you like this, Dan?" 

"Y-y-yes," I answered without moving my lips. 

"Then relax. We're friends. There's nothing to be afraid of." 

"I don't...I mean I never...um..." 

"I know you never..." 

"Don't you care?" 

"I think it's wonderful." 

"You do?" 

"You're my first, too, you know." 

I was puzzled, to say the least. "I'm your first kiss?" 

"The first that means anything." 

"Wh-what...um...what _does_ it mean?" I asked anxiously. 

She covered my mouth with hers and used her tongue and lips to lovingly caress me. "What do you think it means?" she asked after pulling away, with an obvious challenge to respond in like fashion. 

The time had once more come to prove myself. Was I man enough to show her how I felt, to risk displeasing her so that I might please her, so that I might please us both? 

I closed my eyes and took her mouth, trying not to allow the urgency of my heart to impatiently suck the life out of her. While it was true that I had no practical experience in the art of love, I did have the memory of one or two discussions on the topic with my grandfather from which to draw now that I had found myself in the heat of the moment. And what I recalled clearer than anything was that a gentleman must always love with tenderness and patience. A young boy, according to Grandpa, hadn't mastered such skills and, therefore, had no business with a woman. I was determined to prove to my grandpa and to myself that I deserved this moment with Charlotte. 

Charlotte's kiss had been so pleasant that I decided all I needed to do was emulate what she had done and I was sure to pass muster. As I settled into my first kiss, I believed things were going quite well. So well, in fact, that, despite my natural anxiety, this new intimacy with Charlotte was starting to arouse hints of desire in areas of my body that truly had no hope of receiving satisfaction. Not that night, anyway. I was not prepared in any sense of the word -- to go that far. 

When I suddenly realized that Charlotte had joined me as an active participant in the kiss, I instinctively ceased taking any initiative, but she responded by squeezing the back of my neck and pulling me toward her, which I took as encouragement to resume what I had been doing. So I did. Resume, that is. 

* * *

Lest you suspect that I failed to provide any further details of my first romantic encounter because things got out of hand, rest assured, we went only as far as we were both prepared to go. And, yes, I was satisfied. Very much so. Even Charlotte, who had relieved the lustful yearnings of many a young man, confessed to finally understanding the appeal of a loving touch. 

* * *

"We'd better be getting back," I said a while later as we cuddled against the crag of the hill that would henceforth be considered 'our' hill. 

"What's your hurry? Sick of me already?" 

"Oh, gosh, no." 

"Prove it." 

"Huh?" 

"Kiss me." 

I couldn't resist. The taste of her was still such a new and intoxicating delight that I felt as if I had to make up for years of lost time. As we kissed, I gradually found my body falling forward until I had Charlotte pinned beneath me. Truth be told, I can't say whether I had willed the movement of my body or had simply submitted to Charlotte's will. Without breaking the kiss, I pushed myself up to take some of my weight off her, but, as I did so, she fought back, grabbing hold of my buttocks and applying a firm squeeze as she pulled me close. 

Now...let's just say that her squeeze was soon not the only thing that could be described as firm. It was as if she had pressed a magic button. _Presto!_ Charlotte no longer had to wonder whether I was, biologically, a man. 

"Oh, dear," I lamented. 

"What's wrong?" 

"Um, well..." 

She smiled ever-so-sweetly. "It's just an erection, Dan. Haven't you ever--" 

"Yeah, I know. Oh, God! I'm sorry." It appeared my grandfather was right. Maybe I didn't have enough patience yet to be with a girl. I thought I did, but my body was disagreeing. 

"Don't be sorry. It's kind of nice." 

"It's not nice. It's...wrong." 

"Says who?" 

"Charlie, we can't....I mean, I can't....we're not ready for..." I sighed again and carefully lifted my weight from her and hung my head in shame. I couldn't totally disengage myself from her because she continued to embrace me and I feared she might feel slighted if I tore myself free. 

"Clearly, part of you _is_ ready," she teased with good nature. 

"I don't know how you can laugh." 

"Oh, Dan, it's not the end of the world." 

"Pretty darn close." 

She burst out laughing then immediately stifled her mirth when I desperately begged her to _shush_. "No one can hear us out here, silly," she assured me. 

"Yeah," I agreed, bashfully, "but please, let's be quiet, anyway, okay?" 

"Sure, Dan. If it'll make you feel better." 

"Thank you kindly." 

"So, what do you want to do now?" she asked as I held my position, hovering over her. 

"Die." 

"Well, thanks a lot!" 

"No, Charlie, I didn't mean " 

"I think you've got it backwards, buster. You're supposed to wanna die if you _can't_ get a hard-on." She loosed her arms from around me and glared her displeasure. 

Unable to bear the proximity of our bodies any longer, I rolled away and sat with my back to her, burying my face in my hands. 

"Should I go?" she asked. 

"No, don't. Please don't go. I'll walk you back. Just give me a couple minutes." 

"Are you....okay?" 

"I will be." Mac came and settled himself right up next to me, resting his head on my outstretched leg and I began to stroke him. 

"What're you doing?" Charlotte asked tentatively. 

"Nothing." 

"I could, um, do that for you," she offered softly. 

"Huh? Do what?" 

Charlotte crawled over and watched me petting Mac. "Oh, it's the dog." 

"Huh? Yeah...what did you " 

"Nothing, nothing. I thought you were, um...you know...helping things along." 

"Geez, Charlie," I whined, hiding my face from her. 

"Well it would be quicker, wouldn't it?" she reasoned. 

I shrugged silently and swivelled my body in the opposite direction. 

Charlotte swivelled as well and sat with her back against mine. After an uncomfortable silence during which she seemed to have something to say, she finally spoke. "It wouldn't be like with the other guys, you know." 

"Charlie..." 

"It wouldn't. You're different." 

"No, I'm not." 

"You are to me!" she snapped back. 

"No...I know...I meant it would still be wrong. It would be wrong of me." 

"Why?" 

"Because...it's too soon. I haven't even, um...courted you yet." 

After a short pause, she asked softly, "Are you going to court me?" 

I that is, Ben Fraser wanted nothing more than to court Charlotte; however, he also knew his plans didn't include sticking around long enough for a courtship. He had a job to do and, once that job was completed, he'd be on his way home. So Dan Troop was called upon to play his part. "Um, how would you feel about that?" 

"You're not supposed to ask first, dummy." 

"Oh, sorry. But then how do I know " 

"A girl wants to be romanced." 

"Romanced?" 

"Yeah. Show her how you feel. Make her feel special when you're around. Then how can she turn you away?" 

"You don't need me around to be special." 

Charlotte fell silent. If we hadn't been sitting back-to-back, I would've wondered if she'd run off. Suddenly, she gasped and it became apparent that she'd been trying to repress her emotion but lost the battle. 

"Now what'd I do wrong?" I asked, angry at myself for having somehow upset her. 

"No, Dan, no. You're perfect." She continued to cry, so I turned and placed a hand on her shoulder. 

"If I were perfect, you wouldn't be crying." 

"It's a happy cry." 

"You're happy?" 

"I guess that's what you'd call it. No one's ever said the things you say to me. It's strange, in a good way, I guess, but it's hard to believe you really mean the things you say about me." 

"I haven't told you anything I don't really mean. You have to believe that. Promise me you'll always believe that." 

"I'll believe you, if you believe me." 

"What do you mean?" 

"I mean you _are_ different from the other boys. _Very_ different." 

"Okay," I smiled with a shy blush, pleased with her assessment, if the truth be told. "Shall we go back to camp now?" 

"You're, um...ready?" she inquired politely. 

I nodded and got to my feet then offered my hand to help her up. "Sorry if I, um, ruined our...walk. I give you my word I'll behave properly in the future." 

Once on her feet, Charlotte looked at me like a child with a guilty conscience. "I should be the one apologizing. I behaved improperly, not you." 

"No, Charlie." 

"Yes. I, um, rushed you. I shouldn't have...touched you so...um, I was too...I'm sorry. I'm not used to..." 

"It's okay, Charlie. I, um, liked, you know, the way you..." I gave her hand a reassuring squeeze and smiled until she smiled back. "And some day I'm gonna, um, you know, want you to, uh, again." 

"After you court me?" 

"Yes." 

"Okay. Just don't make me wait too long, eh...Eugene?" 

"My name's Dan," I corrected her softly with a smile, almost convincing myself. 

She smiled and kissed my cheek and then took off toward camp, pulling me along beside her. 

* * *

I played the gentleman's part and walked Charlotte to her door, never considering the inherent risks of such an action or perhaps I would've had Mac accompany us. Our innocent good-night kiss was rudely interrupted when her father opened the door and caught us in an embrace. 

"Charlie!" he screamed, roughly pulling her away from me. "So this is what you been up to all night instead of your chores." 

"Daddy " 

"Get to your room and stay there! I'll deal with you after I've taught this boy his lesson," he said with a menacing sneer as he advanced in my direction, rolling up his shirt sleeves. 

"He didn't do anything wrong, Daddy." 

"Get inside, I said! You don't wanna see this." He was standing right before me, but hadn't yet laid a hand on me, forbearing violence while his daughter was present. 

"Sir, may I s-suggest we discuss this c-calmly " I stammered. 

"Shut up!" he yelled with a shove, sending me to the ground, flat on my back. "I warned you, boy!" 

"Daddy, stop that!" Charlie pleaded, trying to pull her father away from me. 

French didn't even try to free his arm from Charlotte's grasp, but she was nowhere near strong enough to move him, try as she might. He was simply too large. In fact, it probably would've taken at least a couple or three of his own henchmen to move him against his will. 

"Go on, Charlie," he said calmly, turning to look at her for a while instead of at me, which gave me an opportunity to get back on my feet. "No one's gonna spoil my little girl with his dirty little " 

"He didn't, Daddy. Dan's a nice boy. He'd never " 

"I saw him," he cut her off vehemently. "I saw him slobbering all over you." 

"Please, sir, if I may," I tried to interject, only to be flattened once more. 

"Who said you could get up, boy?" he yelled as he stood over my supine body. 

"No one, sir." 

"I wouldn't do anything more to piss me off, if I were you," he warned. 

"Yes, sir." 

"Daddy, please," Charlotte cried desperately. 

"Relax. I'm not gonna kill him," French told her. "Although he may wish I had until the pain wears off." 

"I won't let you hurt him," she answered, still trying to pull him back. 

"It's okay, Charlie," I called out to her. "Go inside like your father said." 

"No, Dan, I can't." 

"Yes, you can. For me. Please." 

"Shut up!" French ordered with a cautionary boot to my ribs, which I decided to ignore. 

"Hurry, Charlie, so I can get this over with," I begged, immediately rewarded with another swift kick, this one quite painful. 

"Either you go inside now, girl, or I take you inside, myself," French directed firmly. "And if I have to do it, Casanova here's getting it ten times worse." 

Charlotte stood there for a moment, weeping her love for me and her hate for French. It broke my heart, and I prayed she would leave us so I wouldn't have to witness her pain any longer. 

"I hate you, Daddy!" she finally declared and then ran, not into the cabin as she'd been ordered, but off into the surrounding hills. 

French swung himself back around toward me, revealing the most sinister snarl that had ever been directed at me in my nearly-sixteen years. "Satisfied, Troop?" 

"S-sir?" I asked, starting to shiver from the cold as well as from fear. 

"You've turned my little girl against me. You little homewrecking piece of shit!" 

"Aren't you going to, um, shouldn't somebody go after her, sir?" 

"She'll be back. She's just having one of her temper tantrums...thanks to you." 

"With all due respect, sir, um..." I was about to contradict him, but felt too vulnerable in my present position to do so. "May I get up, please, sir, before we, um, continue?" 

"No." 

"It's just that the ground is very cold and wet, sir." 

"Oh, yeah? Well..." He stepped toward me, deliberately placing his right foot between my thighs. "...maybe this'll help!" And on that note, he lifted his foot and kicked the frozen ground with such might that shards of ice showered upon my body while his heavy-booted foot hammered my groin, thrusting me into a state of fiery, delirious pain. 

With an inaudibly high-pitched cry, I instantly curled into a writhing heap of moaning, throbbing flesh, melting the ice beneath me with the friction of my madly-twisting body. "Ohhh.....God," I grunted with what little breath I could harness. But I wasn't calling out to God for help, nor was I cursing God for allowing me to suffer such unspeakable pain. There was no doubt in my mind that God was still busy dealing with cries of that sort from the baby seals I had sent before their time out of this breathing world. No, my cry was a lament for my sins and an appeal for forgiveness. Forgiveness of which I felt totally unworthy. I doubted sufficient pain was possible to free my soul, but I implored God not to spare me whatever it would take to do so. 

I made the agonizing effort to force my eyes open and face my assailant...but no one was there. Not a single soul in sight anywhere. Just me. 

* * *

I didn't sleep at all that night. A constant battle raged in my head, one voice advising me to get out of that place while the getting was good, while another voice insisted I had no business going anywhere until my job was completed. I didn't want to give in to the first voice, but as the pain from French's boot prints persisted, it occurred to me that he may have disabled me from performing my duties, in which case the choice to stay or leave would not be mine. 

_Mind over matter_ , my grandmother was fond of reminding me when I didn't feel up to doing something. So, the next morning I was the first one up and out of the bunkhouse and ready to face a new day. 

* * *

Charlotte was in the kitchen, occupied with mixing the porridge, when I entered the mess hall well before dawn. Other than a couple other kitchen workers, we were alone in the place, so I approached the kitchen for a quick hello while it seemed relatively safe to do so. 

"Good morning, Charlie." I didn't actually enter the kitchen, as that was forbidden to anyone not assigned kitchen duty, but I got as close as possible, which was just the other side of the serving table where the sternos kept the food warm during meal hours. 

Charlotte looked up, startled. She was obviously shocked by my presence, but restrained herself from saying anything right away. After a thorough look around the kitchen and the dining hall, she signalled for me to wait quietly and then she set the kettle of oatmeal on the stove and lit the fire under it. She surveyed the place once more while wiping her hands on her apron and then surreptitiously made her way to stand opposite me at the serving table. 

"So, he didn't kill you?" she said with relief to see me on my feet again. 

"No. I'm alive," I half-joked. 

"This isn't funny, Dan!" 

"I know, I know. I was just trying to look on the bright side." 

"You and your bright sides! So, what happened? What'd he do?" 

I hesitated, not sure I was ready to share the details of what her father had done to me. "Like I told you before, your father doesn't like me, and he really doesn't like me anywhere near you." 

"Did he threaten you?" 

"Yes, you could say that." 

"Then what the heck are you doing here? What if he finds you?" 

"This is the mess hall. I have to eat, don't I?" 

"Don't you think you're a little early? Breakfast isn't for another half hour. It's plain to see you're not here to eat." 

"I wanted to make sure you're all right." 

"Me? _I'm_ fine. You should be worrying about yourself, not about me." 

"He didn't hurt you last night?" 

"No, of course not. I told you, he doesn't touch me." 

"Good," I sighed in relief. "I guess he's not all bad, then, eh?" I grimaced in pain when I tried to laugh to cheer her up. 

"What'd he do to you?" she demanded upon noticing my pain. 

"Nothing." It was apparent she wouldn't be content with that lie, so I confessed, "He just, um, kicked me a few times, that's all." 

"You mean he kicked you more after I left?" 

"Yeah." 

"Hard?" 

"Hard enough." When I saw her face contorting with anger, fear, sadness, and worry, I quickly added, "But I'm fine. Really. It's over, Charlie, don't worry about it." 

"It's not over, Dan. If you think it's over, you don't know my dad very well. Once you get on his bad side....well, he's capable of worse than seal slaughter," she whispered. "Much worse." 

"Are you saying...he's killed _people_ , too?" I asked as a surge of new fear coursed through me, sending a shudder up my spine. Clearly, my nemesis was a more formidable opponent than I had bargained on. 

"Not without justification, of course. He's always got a good reason someone had to end up dead." Her voice was full of ironic loathing. 

"Who...ended up dead?" the Mountie in me inquired. 

Charlotte looked away and I could see tears trying to force their way out of the safety of her eyes, but she blinked them back. "We can't talk about this now...not here." 

"Can we talk about it later?" 

"Why? What difference does it make who he killed? It's done, and there's nothing anybody can do about it now. Certainly nothing you can do, anyway." 

"Maybe so, but I'd like to know, just the same. If I'm gonna work for your father, I think I should know what kind of man he is." 

"You know the kind of man he is the kind _nobody_ should be working for least of all, you." 

"Please, Charlie, it's impor " 

"Look, Dan, I mean it, you've really gotta get out of here. My dad could walk in any minute, and, besides, I've got work to do." She turned to go back into the kitchen. 

"Wait!" I called out, which resulted in her hurrying back toward me with her finger pressed to her lips, begging me to shut up. 

"Do you have a death wish or something?" 

"No." 

"Then keep it down before someone sees us and squeals to my dad. And don't kid yourself; nobody'd think twice about turning you in. They'd like nothing better than to watch him beat the crap out of you." 

Although I didn't understand why this was true, I realized it probably was, so I didn't argue. But still, I couldn't just buckle under his threats and cease spending time with Charlotte. Not only would that have been cowardly, but my feelings for her had become simply too strong to disregard. Besides, I had promised to court her and, by God, court her I would! 

"Very well, but before I go..." I leaned in to offer a kiss, but as soon as she realized my intent, she pushed me away. 

"You _do_ have a death wish!" 

"I was just going to kiss you. I thought " 

"You're gonna kiss me here, where anyone could see?" she whispered. "My father must've kicked every last bit of common sense out of you!" 

"If I'm not mistaken, it's perfectly proper for a gentleman to kiss his lady 'good morning'." 

"It's also perfectly stupid to kiss a lady when her father will kill you. Grandma neglected to mention that, eh?" 

I was crestfallen. I had counted on that kiss to keep me going, to get me through whatever evils I'd face until our next kiss. Now I had no idea what would sustain me. "I see," I said. "I guess I'd better go, then, if you don't want me to kiss you." I fear I had quite a pout on my face as I turned to go. 

Charlotte grabbed hold of my sleeve and pulled me back. "Did I say I didn't want you to kiss me? Huh? Did I say anything like that, you bastard!" 

"Well, no, not in so many words, but " 

"No, not in _any_ words!" She paused, her facial expression softened, and she took my hands lovingly into hers. "Oh, Dan, of course I want you to kiss me, but it's not worth getting you killed. I can't risk that." 

"I won't be killed. I promise that won't happen. I won't let it happen." 

"Oh, really? And how would you stop it? How would you stop my dad from killing you which he _would_ do if he felt like it, believe me." 

"I know." 

"Then how can you say you wouldn't let it happen?" 

"I don't know. I guess because you're more important to me." 

"More important than your life, for chrissakes?" 

"More important than being afraid of your father." 

" _Troop!_ " French's booming voice suddenly reverberated throughout the hut, paralyzing both Charlotte and me where we stood. Although we didn't look in his direction, we could both hear him stomping our way, and I don't think either of us breathed during the time it took for him to reach us. "Didn't get my message, Troop?" 

"Message, sir?" 

"Hell, I'd never have figured a boy like you for balls of steel," he sniggered. 

"Oh, _that_ message," I whispered with a small nod. 

"Didn't I tell you to stay clear of Charlie?" 

"More or less, sir." 

"More or less, my ass!" 

"I mean her no harm, sir, I promise you that." 

"We were just talking, Daddy," said Charlotte. 

"I saw what you were doing." 

"Then what's your problem?" 

"I've told this boy to stay away from you, that's my problem." French stepped toward me and I jumped a step or two back then, ashamed of my initial cowardly instinct, held my ground as if daring him to come get me. To my surprise, he didn't advance any further. "You always this disobedient, boy? Hell, no wonder your old man kicked you out." 

"No, sir." 

"Eh?" 

"He didn't kick me out, sir. I ran away. I told you that." 

"People tell me lots of things, Troop. Think I believe all of it? Think I'm that stupid, eh?" 

"No, sir." 

"I don't give a damn why you left home. I hired you to do a job " 

"And, with all due respect, sir, I've done that job. I've done everything you've asked of me." 

"Don't you talk to me about respect, boy! You don't know the meaning of the word." 

"I know it's not about fear, sir." 

French laughed, but he wasn't amused. Quite the opposite, actually. "Respect isn't having your way with my little girl behind my back!" 

"I'm not a little girl!" Charlotte protested, but French just waved her off. 

"I'm not sure what you mean by 'having my way', sir." 

"He means he doesn't want you to be my friend. It's fine if you want to take me behind the bunkhouse to suck you off, but " 

"Charlie!" I was not accustomed to hearing anyone -- let alone girls -- speak of such things, and it made me almost as uncomfortable as French's threats of violence. Heck, perhaps even more so. 

"Well, it's true. Isn't it, Daddy? You don't care what I do with the guys, so long as they don't really like me. You couldn't care less how many pricks I suck." 

"Please, Charlie," I pleaded for a little decorum. 

"My hunters are normal, healthy men. Only natural they need to blow off a little steam once in a while. I'd be a real son of a bitch if I tried to stop 'em." 

I was astounded. It seemed inconceivable that any father would be agreeable to a horde of men using his young daughter to...blow off steam. "You know about...what transpires behind the bunkhouse, sir?" 

"I know everything that goes on in my camp, boy. It's my business to know. Haven't you figured that out, yet?" 

"That's right, Dan," Charlotte said. "And so long as nothing decent goes on, my dad's happy. So drop your pants anytime you need me to scratch your itch..." 

I turned aside to hide my blushing face. 

"...but don't get any weird ideas about making a friend." 

"Don't be a fool," French mocked her. "He's no different than the others. He wants the same thing from you they want. He's just not honest about it. That's what makes him dangerous. He'd break your heart if you let him, mark my words." 

"You're wrong about Dan. He's not like that. He's my friend, and he'd never do anything to hurt me. He's the best thing that's ever happened to me, Daddy," Charlotte stated. "Why do you have to ruin it like you ruin everything else?" She was on the verge of tears, but trying not to give way to them. 

"Because if I didn't, you'd end up just like your mother." 

Charlotte had told me that her mother was dead, so I was very taken aback by French's insinuation. "I understood Mrs. French had, um, died, sir." 

"So what?" 

"Are you saying she was killed?" 

"What business is that of yours?" 

"None, sir, but, um, surely you don't believe I'm a threat to Charlie's life?" 

"No?" 

"Certainly not, sir. Perhaps there's no way to convince you, but I couldn't bear to see any harm come to her." 

"He loves me, Daddy." 

"Loves you, ha! That's what he told you?" 

"He wants to court me." 

"No way in hell!" 

"You can't stop us," she taunted. 

"Is that so?" He grabbed me by the collar and started to escort me out of the room, but I resisted with all my strength. "Give up, Troop," he insisted against my vain struggle for freedom.. "I'm bigger than you." 

"Yes, sir, you are, and maybe you can beat me up or throw me out, but you can't control how I feel about Charlie, no matter how big you are." 

He laughed and kneed my already-tender groin. 

"Cut that out!" I protested angrily. 

French just smiled smugly. "All I gotta do is see you're in enough pain and love'll be the farthest thing from your mind." 

"Charlie will never be the farthest thing from my mind, sir." 

By this time, Charlotte was crying and all activity in the kitchen had ceased, with everyone's attention entirely focused on the escalating scene in the dining hall. 

"Unless you're dead eh, boy?" French suggested in an eerily soft voice, which I suspect no one but me heard. He didn't let go of me, but he stopped dragging me toward the door. The room was silent for several seconds, and time almost seemed to stand still as French's threat echoed through my head. 

Then I heard Charlotte's sobs of fear, and I knew I couldn't give up. I couldn't let French win. "I'd really prefer that you didn't call me 'boy', sir," I said. "I'm here to do a man's work, and it's only fair that I be treated as a man." 

"Fair? You want fair?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"All right." He let me go with a shove that dropped me, backside first, to the floor. Charlotte ran to my side and threw her arms around me, literally crying on my shoulder. "Get back to work, Charlie," French ordered and, then, noticing the audience, commanded, "Everyone get back to work. What do you think this is, recess?" Slowly, the workers all but Charlotte went back to their duties, and French fetched himself a mug of coffee, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. "Go on, Charlie, back to work. You'll have a mess of hungry hunters looking for their breakfast any time now, and we got us a big day ahead." 

"What's so big about today?" she asked, calming her sob and swabbing her face with the back of her hand as she defied her father by remaining at my side. 

"We're packing up." 

"Shit, not again already." 

"Should've been done a long time ago. It's gotten too easy. We're all soft." 

"But not today. Please, Dad." 

"Today. Gotta be today. Go on, get moving. You, too, Troop." 

Confused, I got to my feet then helped Charlotte up. "What's going on, sir?" 

"We're moving on." 

"Moving on? You mean all of us?" 

"Goes with the territory, boy. That's how you stay on top of the game -- keep the enemy guessing. Old army tactic. You don't like it, you can go home." 

"Yes, sir I mean, no, sir, I don't want to go home." 

"Then eat up and get out to the mine. You're in charge of loading up the seal and transporting it." 

"I am?" 

"You can read a map?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"Good. Get yourself a sled and a team and make sure the load is camouflaged good or the patrol will be hauling your ass in for illegal poaching." 

"I have to do this all myself, sir?" 

"Aren't you here to do a man's work?" 

"Yes, sir, I am." 

"Well, let's see it. You manage this and I'll drop the 'boy'." He sipped his coffee and glanced at Charlotte and then looked back at me to ask, "Deal, boy?" as if implying that Charlotte was part of the deal. 

I nodded reluctantly. "Deal, sir." 

* * *

My mind worked feverishly for a plan as I set off as ordered. The last thing I wanted to do was to aid French in his evasion of the Law, and if his outfit relocated, it was bound to work in his favour. I'd have to come up with something darn quick, or White Glacier would be well on their way before anything could be done to stop them. 

I was on my way out of the supply hut with a dog sled when Mac started barking and, without conscious thought, I halted. "I'm missing something, aren't I, boy? You feel it, too, don't you?" Something not just Mac's bark, but some nagging voice in my head had compelled me to stop and look around, so I did. I saw the tanks of gasoline and the canisters that were used to transport the fuel, and I had a thought. Not a full-blown plot, yet, but a thought that I hoped would lead somewhere eventually. *Gasoline is a powerful substance. There must be some way I can put it to good use.* 

"Hello," I called out. When no reply came back, I called out again, slightly louder, just to make certain I was alone. Clearly, no one else was in the hut, so I quickly snatched a canister and filled it with gasoline then hid it as best I could underneath my parka. 

As we emerged from the hut, I noticed that Mac carried something in his mouth. "What's that you've got, Mac?" He relinquished it to me and I found it was the old beat-up boomerang that some of the hunters played with during their free time. A simple device, yet complex at the same time not unlike the ruthless hunters I'd come to know. On another impulse, I threw the boomerang onto the sled and then hurried to the mine to work out what to do next. 

* * *

The gold mine was significantly removed from the main White Glacier compound, for which I was very grateful, as it meant I didn't have to contend with being watched by French or his minions. I could take my time...within reason, that is. My major concern was that French not be allowed to disappear when we were so close to bringing him to justice. Well, not that I had any jurisdiction in the matter, but my dad who did was reportedly patrolling in the vicinity, and it would've been a real crime for him to miss out on such a golden opportunity to bring 'em in. And, yes, a big feather in my cap to be the one to lead my dad to French. 

Down at the mine, I took the dog sled inside so it would be out of sight. As I placed the gas can onto the sled, it came to me. Fire. Fire would cause smoke. And a big fire would create enough smoke to be visible far across this open landscape. Surely, my can of gasoline would ignite a fire to serve this purpose. 

There was another problem to be worked out, however. Gasoline doesn't merely flicker into a flame and slowly build to a full-blown conflagration. It instantaneously explodes into a raging, destructive inferno. _So how am I going to set this fire without sacrificing my own safety?_

Yes. There it was. The answer. Lying benevolently beside the can of gasoline. The boomerang. 

* * *

It took some practice. I mean, handling a boomerang, getting it to go exactly where you want, is not child's play. My Uncle Tiberius had taught me that lesson. One day, when I was very little, he'd been demonstrating his prowess to my dad, and after the boomerang had come to rest within millimetres of the target, Uncle Tiberius asked me to fetch it for him. Well, instead of taking it over to him, I reckoned tossing it would be equally effective, so I gave it a good launch and it sailed, wobbling portentously, right into the windshield of my dad's truck, shattering the glass. Dad was not pleased. And neither was I after he finally caught up to me in my mum's arms where I'd sought refuge. I hadn't touched a boomerang since. 

After adequately hitting about a dozen targets, I decided it was time to get the show on the road. I loosed the dogs from their shelter within the mine and shooed them into the hills, out of harm's way. Working quickly, I took my handkerchief and knotted it snugly to the boomerang and then carefully dipped one end of the rag into the gasoline, hoping to saturate it just enough so that it would hold a flame without erupting out of control right away. The dogsled was then straddled across the threshold to the mine with the gas can set toward the back of it, just clear of the mine. 

Calculating the spot from which I needed to launch the boomerang required every bit of mathematics my grandmother had taught me. I still wasn't absolutely certain of success, as there were several variables that could not be precisely controlled, perhaps the most significant being my release of the flaming boomerang. And I doubted I'd get more than one attempt before the boomerang was completely engulfed in fire. 

Finally, everything was set, so I struck a match and, holding the boomerang at a full arm's length, I ignited my flaming arrow. Doubts that I could pull this off immediately bombarded my mind, but I forced them aside, inhaled deeply as I went into my wind up, and then held my breath throughout the release and flight of the boomerang. 

Grandma's lessons paid off. The canister of gasoline was hit squarely, knocking it onto its side so the gas spilled onto the sled which quickly caught fire. After a tortuous fraction of a second spent waiting for a reaction, a heart-thumping BOOM-BOOM heralded the utter destruction of the mine. All that was left behind was the all-consuming fire and its thick, black smoke that trailed off into the sky and across the tundra. 

Success! I had done it! I had actually done it! Too naive and proud to know better, I allowed a self-satisfied smirk to possess my face as I watched my smoke signal embark on its journey. I was still grinning as French and several of his men came running to investigate the explosion. If I hadn't been so impressed with myself, I probably would've realized it was time to start running. The devil in me, however, wanted to see the look on French's face when he realized he had been outsmarted by a mere boy. 

_Whup!_ French wasted no time in forcefully removing my smirk with the back of his hand. 

I said nothing. I wasn't about to play the innocent. It was too late for that. 

"What is so goddamn funny, boy?" he bellowed. 

"Nothing, sir." My inevitable fate was starting to dawn on me, and I wisely began to experience fear. 

French signaled silently and two of his men grabbed me, each of them clutching and twisting one of my arms so that it hurt even more to wriggle than it did to hold still. Mac immediately tried to come to my rescue, but one of the men grabbed him as well. 

"Hey, leave him alone," I shouted to no avail. 

French signaled again and the man twisted both of Mac's front legs until they snapped, causing unbearable yelps of pain to stab at my heart. 

"No!" I cried in anger. 

"Not smiling any more, boy?" 

"You....bastard," I cursed, feeling all sense of control draining from me. 

"Your dog, Troop?" French asked. 

I was too angry to answer him. I just stared at him defiantly. 

"We got our own dogs here. No need for pets." 

"He's a hunter, you son of a bitch." 

"Not anymore, eh?" he snorted. "Not for a while, anyway." 

Upon the miserable failure of my renewed wild attempts to break free of my captors long enough to punch out French's lights, I glared all my venom at him. 

"What's he hunt?" he asked. 

"Whatever I ask him to." 

French's expression soured and he gave me a look as if he were debating whether to hit me again. "I'm the boss around here, boy, not you. Sooner you learn that, the better." 

"Let him go...please." 

"Please, eh? Well, that's more like it." At French's signal, the man dropped Mac, who lay helpless in the snow, whimpering. 

"May I see to him?" I asked, seething, but trying to hide the fact. 

"I ain't finished with you, yet, Troop. What happened here?" 

I hesitated, then said, simply, "The mine blew up." 

"Just blew up?" he questioned severely. 

"Didn't you hear it?" 

_Whup!_ Another slap across my snotty mouth. 

I had planted my boots in the snow, using the strength in my legs to help strain against the men holding my arms. It was like trying to move a glacier with your bare hands. I put every ounce of my strength into it, pushing and pulling until I could feel their fingers bruise my arms even through my thick parka and the layers beneath it. I didn't care. I was frantic, more than aware of what was coming. 

French stepped up to me, standing less than a metre away from where I was held immobile. His face was flushed with anger, his eyes narrowed. I could smell the smoke from the mine rising behind us, and I met his eyes in defiance. "You burn the mine, boy?" He and I both knew that it wasn't really a question, and his voice was dangerous. 

A Fraser doesn't shrink from his deeds. "I did." 

"Accident?" 

"No." 

He hit me. 

Hauling back, he had balled one massive hand into a fist, slamming it into my gut. It was like being hit by a freight train, and my breath exploded out of me in a harsh gasp as I doubled over. I could feel tears prick my eyes as I tried to find the oxygen he had so forcibly removed from my lungs. My stomach felt like it was on fire, and I tried not to cry out, managing to keep the sound that bled from my mouth down to a low moan. 

I hadn't expected it would hurt that much. 

Sure, I'd been hit before, but always by other boys. Being one of few boys in town with pale skin and blue eyes tends to make one a natural target, and I was beat up with some regularity when I was younger. Finally, after an incident involving a dead sea otter that left a scar I still carry on my shoulder, my grandmother taught me to box. After I laid Herbert Drinkwater flat on his back, they didn't mess with me anymore. 

Maybe that made me complacent. Maybe that helped me forget exactly how unpleasant it is to be hit, and what it feels like when you can't fight back. French certainly helped me remember. 

"You're really stupid, boy, you know that? You could've been my right-hand man one day. This could've all been yours." 

"I don't want it," I spit out hoarsely. 

"You wanted Charlie. She could've been yours, too, if you had any smarts." 

"If Charlie's ever mine, it'll be my way -- and hers -- not yours." 

That really got him going. He dished out a good one-two punch: one fist in the stomach followed quickly by one knee in the groin. I fell to my knees, but the two men pulled me back up and held me on my feet until I was able to stand on my own power. 

Clenching my teeth, I looked up at French. I must've looked like a wounded husky, hunched and trembling, my eyes blazing and teeth bared. "You can't get away with this forever!" 

He almost looked ready to laugh. "And you're going to stop me? You think burning the mine will stop me?" 

I still felt as though I'd been eviscerated, but I pulled myself upright, looking him straight in the eyes. "I'm going to tell everyone what you do! The RCMP will -- " 

French hit me again. This time, it was a backhanded slap across the jaw. I tasted sweetly salty blood as my lip split open and my jaws snapped shut on the tip of my tongue, cutting a stinging groove into the flesh. Gingerly, I probed my bleeding tongue against my teeth, trying to make sure they were all still there. One eye tooth felt loose, but nothing was missing. That surprised me. From the way it felt, I was sure I'd be spitting teeth from there to Whitehorse. I forced myself to bite down on my bleeding lip to prevent any noise from escaping. 

"The Mounties won't know a damn thing!" French laughed. "And that's all your doing, boy." 

"My doing?" 

"You stupid boy, you destroyed the evidence." 

_Oh my God, he's right!_ I said to myself. He was right on two counts. Not only had I destroyed the evidence of the seal poaching, but I was truly an idiot for doing so. I hated myself at that moment. My ill-conceived plan to bring French to justice had boomeranged back onto me. I was the one paying the price for his own misdeeds. I almost wanted him to keep beating me until I... 

"All they're gonna find is your pathetic little broken body at the bottom of Black Wolf ravine. 'Tragic accident. So sorry, Mr. Troop, the kid just slipped and fell. These things happen all the time. Kids, they're so careless.'" 

Strangely, the news that I was going to be killed didn't frighten me. If anything, it made me more determined than ever to survive. Of course, in retrospect, I realize that I probably had too much adrenaline flowing to be paralyzed by fear. Logically, I should have been scared stiff from the very beginning. My voice sounded strange to my own ears as I tried to navigate my split lip and throbbing tongue. "My name's not Troop." 

"It isn't?" His tone was mocking. 

"It's Fraser. Ben Fraser. My father is Constable Robert Fraser. Of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. He's patrolling approximately fifteen kilometres south southeast, and as soon as he sees the smoke, he'll be coming this way. You kill me, and he'll hunt you to the ends of the earth." Was that me talking? Were those calm, defiant words coming from my mouth? It was like standing outside myself, delivering an ultimatum for some other boy's life. 

This seemed to give French a moment's pause, and I briefly felt a surge of hope. Then I saw the black fury that was building in his eyes. His huge body began to quake, and my muscles tensed in anticipation of what was coming. 

"You cocky little bastard!" His fist drove into my stomach again, and black dots swam in front of my vision as pain exploded through my body once more. My knees suddenly refused to support me, and I was surprised to feel the hands on my arms let go. I sank down to the snow, sagging over on my side as my knees curled up against my chest. I was breathing in short, painful pants, seeking air that didn't seem to exist. 

Something hard came down on my back, slamming me out of my fetal position to arch backwards against the deep smack of a seal club impacting a boy's shoulders. It wasn't French this time, but one of his men. Another blow came, this one across the arm I had raised to protect myself. I actually heard the bones in my forearm crack, a sound like a dry branch snapping, coupled with a red-hot shaft of fire that shot up my arm. A boot connected with my forehead, spattering gold and red stars across my eyes. French was back. 

The blows continued to rain down, melding and blurring into a single fire of pain that raged through my young body. I twisted and turned, trying to protect myself, trying to fight back. It was like trying to fight off a blizzard. The force was too great, too overwhelming. I lost count of the times the clubs fell across my chest and back, how many times boots and fists caught me in the stomach and face. 

I could feel something wet on my face, but I wasn't sure if it was tears or blood. If I was crying, I didn't know it. I was, however, very sure of one thing. I was dying. Not quite sixteen years old, and I was going to die here, like this. What's worse, French would probably get away after tossing my body in Black Wolf ravine. If I was ever found, my death would be called an accident. No justice would be done. Except to me. 

My father would be ashamed of me. 

I latched onto that one thought like a drowning man to a life preserver. All this had been to make my father proud. I couldn't let him down now. This was my only chance to escape total defeat. I couldn't be weak. 

To this day, I don't know where I found the strength, but I rolled to my stomach, pulling my arms under me. As if from a great distance, I heard myself scream as I pushed up on my broken arm and gritted my teeth. I had to get up. Had to fight back. 

I could hear them laughing at me, but I didn't care. The blows had stopped, at least for the time being. They were watching me, laughing at my audacity. I could hear French comment that "for a kid, he's got some balls." I almost smiled at that, what must have appeared to be a demented, almost demonic grimace of pain and blood and defiance spreading over my face. 

Swaying like a drunk, I managed to get my feet underneath me, pushing myself up until I was standing again. My entire body felt like it had been consumed by fire, and one eye was blinded by a cascade of sticky red fluid that gummed the lashes shut. I didn't fully realize that I was still screaming as I staggered towards French. 

I only made it a single step before I fell to my knees again, the world spinning around me. The last thing I saw was French's laughing face and his fist flying towards my face. Then there was a crashing impact, and I fell limply back into the deep white pillow of the Arctic snow. 

Darkness. 

* * *

The next thing that I was aware of was a fierce burning of my split lip. I moaned as I tried to open my eyes, only succeeding in slitting one open. My vision was blurred at first, but I blinked several times and the world slowly came into focus. 

I wasn't dead. At least, I didn't think I was. 

I was indoors, looking up at the thick pine beams of a cabin. Someone had removed my parka and laid me flat on a bed I could feel the give of a mattress beneath me. A thick blanket covered me, but I was still shivering. Each tremor exacerbated the pain that nearly forced me back beneath the armour of unconsciousness, and I couldn't hold back a small, incoherent noise of pain. 

At the sound, a face leaned into my view. It was Charlotte. I immediately recognized her beautiful features, even though they were creased in worry and streaked with tears, her dark eyes reddened. She held a rag that was soaked in what smelled like whiskey and streaked with blood that I assumed had been mine. Gently, she pressed the rag to my forehead, and I winced as I felt the alcohol come in contact with the open gash that I realized must be at least partly responsible for my pounding headache. 

I squirmed slightly, instinctively recoiling from the sting. Charlotte placed one hand on my shoulder, holding me down. "Shhh...don't. You're hurt." 

What I tried to say was 'I know that'. What came out was an oddly strangled grunt, and I realized that I couldn't expect a swollen mouth to respond normally. She smiled sadly, then reached down to dab away some more of the blood that was crusting my eye shut. "Dying?" I asked. 

"Shhh, no!" she insisted, hushing my mouth with a finger. "I almost couldn't stop Daddy in time. They were trying to kill you...I thought for a little bit that maybe they had." 

It all came rushing back as I became more fully conscious, and I recalled that I wasn't the only one who'd been injured. Before speaking again, I put more attention into disciplining my lips and tongue to form the proper sounds. The results weren't half bad, though I sounded a little like I was talking with my mouth full. In a way, I suppose that was true. "Mac?" I asked. 

"He's sleeping." 

"Not dead?" 

"No, just sleeping. And it's just as well. Until we can get him some help, he'd be suffering if he were awake." 

"Get help?" 

"Yes, we'll get some help...for both of you. Don't worry." 

"Thank you," I managed. "You...save..." 

Ever so gently, she touched one finger to my lip. "I said shhhh. Don't talk right now." She dipped the rag into a bowl, squeezing it out before swabbing my forehead. She had saved my life and was honestly worried about me. Selfish or not, I liked that. "They were beating you with the hunting clubs. I'm pretty sure they broke your right arm, and I think a couple of your ribs too. There's a pretty nasty cut by your hairline, and your right eye and cheekbone have a hell of a shiner. You've got a split lip, and your stomach is all bruised. I don't know how to check for internal injuries, but you could have some of those." 

I winced, and not from the sting of the whisky. I was scared. They'd worked me over pretty well, and if Charlotte hadn't intervened, I'd probably have been decorating the rocks at the bottom of Black Wolf ravine. If it turned out I had internal injuries, there was still a chance I might bleed to death before help could arrive. Help which I hoped would come in the form of my father. I needed to know just how seriously I was hurt, so I dragged a hand to my stomach and asked, "Is...hard?" 

She frowned. "Hard?" 

"Hard...my stomach...is hard?" 

Her voice betrayed puzzlement, and she paused before answering tentatively. "You've got okay muscles and stuff, but I don't know about 'hard'." 

I sighed, closing my eyes to ponder how to get her to understand. "Feel...my stomach...if... swollen...hard...rigid...bleeding inside." 

"Oh!" I felt her pull back the blanket, and I shivered from the sudden rush of cold air that assaulted me. "Are you all right, Dan?" 

"Uh...huh. Check...stomach...please." 

My gut was very tender where I had been beaten, and I grunted a few times after she lifted my shirt and began to palpate. I knew she was being as gentle as she could, but, unfortunately, that didn't lessen the pain. Enduring this torture did pay off rather quickly, however, as my mind was put at ease before Charlotte said a word. Her fingers were pressing into my flesh fairly easily, only the pain-related tension in my abdominal muscles giving her any resistance. "No," she finally announced, lowering the blanket back into place and covering me securely, "...it's not rigid. But it is bruised pretty badly, and I know it's going to be some interesting colors." 

I nodded. "No bleeding...good...Hurts...but won't...die." I paused, then amended that. "Don't...think so." 

She suddenly frowned bitterly. "I might kill you." 

"Huh?" 

Charlotte took one of my hands in hers, squeezing it tightly enough to almost be painful in and of itself. "How could you do this to me, Dan? I thought we cared about each other?" 

"We I...do care." 

"No, you don't. You couldn't even be honest with me!" 

"Honest?" 

"Daddy told me...why you really came here...to get proof and turn him into the Mounties." 

"Mad...at me...exposing...father?" 

"No, not about that. I'm mad 'cause you lied to me. What did you think I was going to do? Run to Daddy? God, Dan, you know I hate the seal thing as much as you! Why couldn't you tell me the truth?" She sounded on the verge of tears, but then her voice hardened. "Or did you never really care about me in the first place? Were you just using the boss's daughter to help your little undercover operation? Was that it?" 

I shook my head, ignoring the red-hot protest that shot through my skull. "No...not like that..." 

"What was it like then, Dan? Huh?" 

I hesitated, realizing I must come clean. "Not...Dan." 

A note of confusion entered her voice. "What do you mean?" 

"Ben," I whispered, "my name...is Ben." I opened my eyes, and I could see the tears in hers. 

"You couldn't even be honest about your name." 

Desperation seized me. This wasn't right at all. I couldn't let her think that everything between us had simply been some form of cold-hearted undercover manipulation on my part. "No...Ben...Dan...both.......love you." 

Her voice was shaking, and she looked away for a second. As she faced me again, I could see the tears falling from her eyes to sparkle down her cheeks. "Love?" 

I tried to nod, but was forced to stop by the pain. 

"I wish I could believe that." 

"Please...believe..." I was pleading now, struggling to sit up a little bit. Gritting my teeth against the pain, I strained to reach her hand. "...No matter who...no matter...what...always..." 

The tears flowed freely down her cheeks, and I could feel my throat tightening. She leaned down over me, her hand squeezing mine as if for dear life. "I won't leave you." 

I knew she wanted to stay because of feelings for me, but I shook my head as much as I could manage. I couldn't let her do this. She didn't seem to know that my father was very likely the Mountie who would be arriving at any moment, or that if she stayed, she would be arrested. Charlotte had known all about the operations, and had even helped in small ways. That made her a criminal, and my father would have no choice but to put her in prison. As a sixteen-year-old girl, I knew she wouldn't get a long sentence, but it would still be robbing her of some of the best years of her life. 

I couldn't do that to her. Her criminal acts weren't her fault. It wasn't her fault she was born the daughter of the leader of this crooked operation. What choice did she have but to obey him? I knew deep down that Charlotte wasn't a criminal at heart, and I couldn't bear the thought of seeing her taken off to jail. "No...please..." 

"Dan -- uh, Ben, I'm staying." Her voice was firm. 

"No...my father...my father is...I mean, the Mountie is...coming...he'll...take you away..." The desperation I felt was clear in my voice, and she drew back slightly in surprise at the intensity. 

"Your father? Your father's a Mountie?" 

I frowned my repentance for yet another lie. 

"You said he was a hunter?" 

"Yes...no...he's...Mountie...he'll take you...go to jail...you...helped...father...kill seals." My voice had faded to a thin rasp, and I could feel my broken ribs grating with each breath. I couldn't argue much longer. I could only hope to beg with my eyes, to keep her from throwing her life away. 

"Damn you." Charlotte began to cry again. 

"Yes...sorry...so sorry...please...forgive?" 

"What difference does it make?" 

"Because...I need..." 

"But we're...it's over. Right? If I leave now, I'll never see you again, will I? That's what you want?" 

"You'll have...whole life...free...to live." I tried to force a brave, hopeful smile. "Maybe...someday...meet again." My one open eye began to fall closed, and I felt myself starting to drift away again. "If you...care...go..." The blackness descended again. 

* * *

When I awoke, I was immediately aware of a terrible sense of being alone. I made the effort to raise my head and look around the cabin, and my fears were confirmed. Charlotte was gone. And Mac was mercifully still asleep. 

Tears flooded my eyes as I sagged back to the mattress. I could hear the barking of dogs in the distance, and I knew someone was coming. It had to be my father, I told myself, hopefully. The criminals were gone, but I could tell Dad everything about what they had done. I could tell him that I had infiltrated the group, that I had gathered information, that I had brought him here by destroying their chance to make a criminal fortune. I had even been wounded in the line of duty. He would be so proud of 

A sudden realization hit me as hard as French's fist. 

He would not be proud of me. Not only had I made too many fatal errors in carrying out my plan, but in my physical and emotional weakness, I had committed a crime that undid all of my good intentions. I had let Charlotte go. She was a witness, an accomplice, and the daughter of the leader of the entire operation. Not only had I let her go, but I had begged her to go, as good as thrown her out the door. 

I had disgraced the duty of a Mountie before I had even taken the Mountie's oath. My father wouldn't be proud of me at all. In fact, I would be lucky if he still wanted to claim me as his son. 

Later, I would realize that my sense of panic had been heightened by the beginnings of shock setting in from my injuries. At the time, however, all I knew was a terrible fear, a fear that twisted at my insides and stirred my mind to madness. It crystallized in a single need, an overwhelming, animalistic instinct. 

I had to run. 

* * *

I didn't remember any of it upon first regaining consciousness. All I knew was I hurt -- everywhere -- and there was a man hovering over me, poking and prodding my immobile body. 

"Ow!" I exclaimed hoarsely as the man attempted to move my broken right arm, then I bit down resolutely on my already split lip, determined to withhold any such further outbursts. One thing I did remember was that displays of pain went against my better judgment. 

"Broken," I heard the man say, matter-of-factly, and I recognized the voice even before the man moved closer and appeared in my narrowed field of vision. It was my father. 

Instinctively, I tried to get up and show my father the respect I'd been taught to show him. But my body would not cooperate. I couldn't even manage to open my right eye. In fact, I wasn't sure I still had a right eye. Suddenly, it all started to come back to me. The poachers. The beating. Charlotte. My attempt to run away as I heard my father approaching. Apparently, a decidedly unsuccessful attempt. 

"Don't try to move, son. Could be dangerous in your condition." He unnecessarily held me down with a hand on my chest while he took a quick look around until he spotted something of interest. "All right, listen. You can't stay out here in the snow, so I'm gonna try to get you to that cabin. Then I'll radio for help." 

I nodded and winced at the pain invoked by that usually harmless maneuver. 

"Don't worry. I always bring my prisoners in alive," he assured me with confidence. "Almost always." 

_Prisoners?_ I questioned silently. I'd known Dad would be disappointed in me, but I couldn't believe he was actually going to take me prisoner. I needed to speak, but my mouth was paralyzed along with the rest of my body. So I watched nervously as my father retrieved a blanket from his pack and spread it open on the ground beside me. 

"Stay still, son. Let me do the work," he directed and then carefully rolled me onto my side, slipped the blanket underneath me, and let me fall back onto it. I was surprised to see how much effort he had to put into dragging me across the snow-covered ground. It didn't seem that long ago that he could lift me with one arm and still have plenty of strength left to employ his other hand with a playful tickle or even a firm swat to my backside if I was being incorrigible. 

Dad pulled me into the cabin and settled me near the stove. After wrapping the blanket snugly around me and placing a pillow under my head, he lit a fire. He worked fast, but he didn't seem frantic, so I assumed my condition wasn't as bad as I'd feared. I heard him call for assistance and tried to make sense of his words, but it was as if he were talking about a stranger rather than about his own son. When he had finished his call, he came over and knelt beside me for another look at my injuries. Seemingly content, he fetched his canteen and popped the lid. "Here, drink." 

I realized suddenly how parched I was, so I cooperated eagerly as he guided the canteen to my mouth and carefully allowed the water to flow. Sufficiently quenched, I waited anxiously for some small token of familiarity, if not affection, but none was forthcoming. 

"These things always look worse than they are." He sighed and sat back against the wall behind me so that I couldn't see him any more. "You're suffering some effects of shock, which is to be expected. Help'll be here shortly. Meantime, we'll keep you warm and comfortable and I reckon you'll pull through all right," he said almost begrudgingly. 

_You reckon I'll pull through all right?_ That was the best he could offer his own son? Okay, I had screwed up. Big time. But I was ready to own up to it. I'd tell him everything -- well, almost everything -- as soon as I regained the ability to speak. So why did he have to treat me as if I were 

Wait a minute. Why _was_ he treating me as if I were just another one of his prisoners? What did he know? What could he have known? I hadn't said anything to him. I couldn't have. For all he could have known, I was the innocent victim of a vicious attack by bandits of the wilderness. And even if he had figured that something nefarious was afoot, why had he seemingly jumped to the conclusion that I was involved? He never even once asked me what had happened. Did he really think so little of me? 

With fierce determination, I summoned what little life remained in my body and forced a single word from my lips. "Sir?" 

"Save your strength. There'll be plenty of time for talking later -- at your trial." I could only grunt in response, but he answered as if I'd said something intelligible. "You didn't think you'd get away with this forever, did you? Well, not with _this_ Mountie on your trail, Mister! A man's gotta pay for his crimes in this world." 

"But...Dad..." I managed to sputter out of pure desperation. 

"Eh? Who, er, what, er, what'd you..." he stammered and bounded back to my side where he fixed a penetrating glare on me and, within seconds, his face became first pale with horror and then red with embarrassment or rage -- I couldn't tell for sure which. "Benton?" 

He hadn't recognized me! Well, how should that make me feel, I wondered. Relieved, I supposed, because it explained his inordinately crude attitude toward me. But, at the same time, how could he not have recognized me? I was his goddamn son! I shut my eyes and rebuked myself for allowing such strong language to even cross my mind, then opened them and whispered once more, "Dad." 

* * *

I want to be fair here. I mean, as soon as Dad realized who I was, there was no more pussyfooting around. He secured the hood of my parka around my head and took his own coat and laid it over me as an extra layer of protection and then set off, pulling me through the wilderness on the make-shift stretcher he had fashioned from the blanket. He didn't take a single rest to catch his breath until we met up with the emergency personnel who had been dispatched by dogsled after Dad's call for assistance. Then he followed on foot behind us, arriving at the medical clinic by the time the doctor had looked me over, set my broken arm, bandaged my ribcage and declared me badly beaten but seemingly free of any life-threatening injuries. 

"Frankly, he's lucky to be alive," the doctor told my father as they stood beside my hospital bed. "Somebody worked him over real good. If you hadn't found him when you did..." 

"Hmm," Dad responded with a quick glance at me. 

"We'll keep him here overnight for observation and, if all's well, you can take him home in the morning." 

"He doesn't need any other, er, treatments?" Dad asked, pacing nervously around the bed. 

"The arm cast will have to stay for six or eight weeks and he'll need to watch those ribs, as well. No strenuous activity for a good while. Lots of rest and, uh, I'll give you something he can take for the pain." 

"No!" I objected as vehemently as I could in my condition. 

"Just some pills, son," the doctor explained. "They'll make you a bit more comfortable." 

"I--don't--want--pills." 

"Listen to the doctor, Benton. He knows better than you." Dad stopped his pacing and looked at me with his hands on his hips as he spoke. 

But I was determined to prove my courage to my dad. "Don't--need. Pain--won't--kill." 

Dad frowned and turned away from me, which wasn't at all what I was hoping he would do. "We'll take the pills, Doctor. Then the boy can decide whether he needs to use them." 

"Fine. I'll see that you get them." The doctor then turned his attention to me. "You rest now, young man. That'll be the best medicine of all right now." I blinked my understanding, as that was all I could manage in my weakened state, and he turned back to my dad. "You can stay with him tonight, if you'd like, but remember he needs quiet and rest." 

"Of course," Dad replied, but from the way he waved him off, I had a sneaking suspicion he had no intention of heeding the doctor's orders. Not just yet, anyway. And my suspicions were confirmed the moment the doctor left the room. "All right, son," Dad said as he eyed me sternly from the foot of the bed, "you obviously got yourself tangled up in some pretty serious business. Now, you can either tell me everything now, or I can draw my own conclusions and haul you in along with the rest of that White Glacier gang." 

My eyes widened at his mention of White Glacier. "You-know-about--?" 

Dad was much too anxious to wait for me to finish my laboured sentence. "About the seal poaching? Damn right, I know! What the hell do you think I've been doing sticking so close to their camp all these weeks?" 

"I-didn't-know--" 

"What I want to know is what my son was doing working with a bunch of crooks," he interrupted with angry urgency in his voice. 

"Dad " 

"You've always been headstrong and, God knows, you can be damn defiant when you want to be, but this -- this, Benton, is intolerable! If those bastards hadn't already beaten the tar out of you, I'd be giving you a darn good thrashing myself!" 

"Dad " 

"And don't try to tell me you didn't know what they were up to " 

"Dad " 

"And not only did you get yourself thoroughly beaten, but poor old Mac's got his legs broken." 

Much to my eternal shame, I had forgotten all about Mac. The last time I'd seen him, he'd been whimpering helplessly in the snow, yet I had forgotten all about him in my all-consuming selfpity. I had never been so mortified at my own selfishness. "Where-Mac? Okay?" 

"He'll be fine, fine, but you should've known better than to " 

" _Dad!_ " I finally managed to interrupt his tirade and he looked at me silently with an expression that communicated both anger and fear. "Listen-to-me," I pleaded. 

His face softened somewhat, but he didn't say anything yet. He looked away and then walked slowly over to the window and, as he gazed through the glass as if speaking to someone on the other side of it, said, "I'm listening." 

It took every ounce of strength I had, but I told Dad all about my plan to infiltrate White Glacier and expose their criminal activity. For once, I was glad that my father wouldn't look at me. I was ashamed of my appearance because it reminded me of my failure. Yes, I had put a wrench in the works of White Glacier, but they had not been brought to justice. I had destroyed the evidence against them, and they would simply move on and continue their lawless ways elsewhere. And how would Charlotte remember me? As the boy who loved her, or as the boy who had used her and lied to her as a means to satisfy a selfish, personal desire to secure the love of his own father? 

Dad remained still after I finished my tale and I started to wonder if he'd heard anything I'd said. Finally, he lowered his head and spoke. "Have you told me everything?" 

I hadn't. I hadn't told him the one thing which I most needed to tell him. I hadn't told him about Charlotte and how I had let her go, begged her, in fact, to run for her freedom. I was consumed with burning guilt as I lied to him, "Yes, sir." 

Dad left the room without another word and I didn't see him again until the next morning when he returned to the hospital to take me home. 

* * *

Mac and I spent a solid seven days recuperating in bed. My grandmother never left the house so she could see to my every need. Dad stayed close to home, leaving early every morning only to return very late at night for a few hours' sleep. He'd poke his head into my room to check on me when he got home, but I always pretended to be asleep, as I figured that was how he wanted it. 

The reality of my situation gradually sunk in as I convalesced. Although my grandparents had nothing but gentle words of encouragement for me since Dad brought me home looking and feeling as though I'd been through a war, sooner or later they were going to insist I account for failing them. I _had_ failed them, after all, and I knew it. I suppose I had known it from the start, but I had convinced myself it wouldn't matter after I'd brought White Glacier to justice. 

So there I was, lying awake just before dawn a week later, contemplating the inevitability of retribution, thoroughly ashamed to realize that, while I had been willing to risk everything to bring others to justice, I was too cowardly to face my own shortcomings. Fueled by shame, I pulled myself out of bed, changed into warm clothes, and stole out of the house into the morning darkness carrying Mac and the barest of essentials. 

"Going somewhere?" my grandfather inquired as he caught up with me outside the shed where I had stopped for a sled and a supply of kibble. 

I didn't answer. I couldn't. I had no idea if I was going anywhere. So I hung my head and wished if I closed my eyes he would disappear. He didn't. Instead, he took a few steps toward me. 

"That arm won't heal proper without rest," he said. 

"It's much better, sir." 

"Ah, in that case, I could use a hand restocking your grandma's pantry. Got a few minutes to spare?" 

"Um, no, sir. Not really. Sorry." 

"Got important business, have you?" 

"I guess. I'm sorry, sir." 

"What do you keep apologizing for? You up to some mischief, are you?" 

"No, sir," I whispered, not entirely sure. 

"Well, then, I hadn't better keep you. Can we expect you back for breakfast?" 

"Um, no, sir." 

"Dinner, then?" 

I hesitated to answer, intently kicking the ice under my feet as if performing a necessary chore. "I can't say when I'll be back, sir." 

"You know your grandma's gonna want some idea. What can I tell her, buddy?" 

"Um...tell her not to worry, sir." 

"Worry? Why should she worry?" 

"She shouldn't, sir." 

"Very well," he replied with a nod. 

"But, um, you don't have to tell her right away." 

"Eh?" 

"I mean, she's probably still sleeping, so you don't have to tell her anything yet." 

"I see. After she wakes up, then?" 

"Uh huh. Or, you know, whenever she notices I'm, um, not here." 

"Ah, understood." 

"Well, goodbye, sir." 

"Goodbye, buddy. See you later." 

I nodded solemnly then set off into the world, pulling my sled behind me. 

* * *

We stopped after making it a few kilometres downriver so that I could rest my weary, painful bones. I set out some kibble and water for Mac and then reclined against a big rock as I chewed on a strip of pemmican. While washing the last of it down, I almost choked when I suddenly became aware of the figure of a man approaching from around the bend upstream. Within seconds, I had confirmed my initial suspicion and identified the man as my father. No point in running; he had already spotted me. So I sat back and tried to pretend I wasn't concerned about my father's presence. 

"Hello, son," he said as he came to stand beside my rock. 

"Hi, Dad." I didn't turn to face him. I was sure if I had he would've seen the shame on my face. 

"No better way to start the day." 

"Huh?" 

"You can't beat a hike in the wilderness at dawn to get the blood circulating." 

"Oh. Yeah." 

"Just what you need, I'd say. Lying around in bed all day never made a man." 

"I was hurt, Dad. It was doctor's orders." 

"Oh, doctor, shmoctor. What do they know?" 

"Medicine, sir?" I supposed. 

"Not always, you know. Sometimes it takes someone else to know the best medicine." 

I wriggled uncomfortably, still not looking at him. 

"A father, for instance," he suggested. "Sometimes a father knows the best medicine for his son." 

I glanced at him, but immediately averted my eyes when I caught the sternness on his face which his words had, so far, belied. "You mean when I when the son, um...when he needs...a scolding?" 

"Could be, could be." My father took a seat on the rock, right up next to me, and pushed his leg against mine until I had to do likewise or lose my balance. "Do I detect a guilty conscience, eh? You done something I should be taking you to task for?" 

I shifted away from him and shrugged. "I figured that's why you're here...because I did...I mean, because you think I did...I mean...why are you here?" 

"Just out for a walk, same as you." 

I didn't believe him, and it seemed pretty clear he didn't expect me to believe him. "Grandpa told you, didn't he?" I asked. 

"Told me what, son?" 

"That I, um...left home." 

"Left home, eh? For good?" 

"I had to, sir. I couldn't stay." 

"Says who?" 

"Says me, sir." 

"You, eh? Feeling it's time you were moving on?" 

"I guess so, sir." 

"At this hour of the morning?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"Well, I suppose when the time comes, it comes. Still, it was a tad rude, don't you think taking off without so much as a goodbye? Your grandparents deserve better than that." 

I looked my father in the eye and he smirked guiltily and looked away. There was no denying that many's the time he had snuck off without a goodbye for his son. At least I had a valid reason for my rudeness: I was running away, and running away was, by nature, a selfish act. But as my dad hadn't yet acknowledged that he knew I was running away, I conceded to my poor manners with a soft, "Sorry." 

"Well, all right, then." He deeply inhaled the chilled morning air, filling his lungs and then slowly exhaling. "Keep in touch, eh?" he requested with a slap to my thigh. "Your grandma'll want to be hearing from you now and then. You know how women are." 

"How are they?" 

"Oh, uh...you know. Women." 

"Yes, sir. So, um, I can go? I mean, you're not gonna make me go home?" 

"Drag you home, kicking and screaming? Hell, no! What good would it do? I can't very well force you to be a man and face your troubles." Dad got up from the rock and stood facing the river, his back to me. It appeared he had washed his hands of me, and I felt utterly alone. 

"But, Dad " 

"So, where you headed?" 

"Nowhere in particular, sir." 

"Here," he said, slipping a pack off his back and tossing it to me. "Take this." 

"What is it, sir?" 

"That sorry excuse for a pack you're carrying won't keep you alive for three days in Nowhere in Particular. There's food for a week and some money in case you can't make it in the wild." 

"I can make it, sir." 

"It's not just you you have to worry about. There's the dog, too, you know. Christ, with those broken bones, he can't even get around on his own yet. You take him from home, you gotta take responsibility for him." 

"Yes, sir. I know. I will." 

Dad turned and regarded me intently for a while then, without a word, started to make his way back upriver. 

"Dad!" I called out as I sprang to my feet. 

"Yeah?" he answered, pausing in his trek. 

"I am facing my troubles. That's why I'm leaving. I broke Grandma and Grandpa's rules, so I don't deserve to live under their roof." 

"Hmm, you know, I broke my share of the rules when I was a boy. And I was made to pay for it more often than not, but can't say as I recall Mum and Dad ever throwing me out of the house." 

"They didn't, sir." 

"That's right. They never did." 

"No, they didn't throw _me_ out, sir." 

"But didn't you just say " 

"Nobody told me I had to leave, sir." 

"Oh. So this was all your idea, eh?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"Sounds to me like you're taking the easy way out, a boy's way out. Running away instead of being a man and admitting you messed up and accepting the consequences." 

"I reckoned leaving was the consequences, sir." 

"Afraid you've lost me, son. How does your running fix the mess you made?" So there it was. My dad was, at last, confronting me with the fact that I was running. I couldn't pretend otherwise any longer. 

"Um, well..." 

"You think your grandparents are gonna feel you've made restitution because you ran away? Do you feel you're making restitution?" 

"I don't know, sir. I guess not. But I don't know how I can do that." 

"One way to find out, you know: ask. But it seems you're not man enough to accept the answer, so I guess you'd better just keep running. Maybe you'll never see any of us again or win our respect by taking responsibility for your mistakes, but at least we won't be able to see the shame on your face. And that's what's most important, eh?" 

"No, sir," I disagreed, firmly shaking my bowed head. "I don't want it to be like that." 

Dad remained silent, and I finally looked up and found him squinting at me, obviously determined that I should make the next move. 

"Here, boy," I called to Mac as I collected my things and slung the pack over my shoulders. Then I retrieved Dad's pack and offered it to him. "Thanks for bringing this to me, sir, but I don't think I'll be needing it." 

"It's a tough world out there, you know." 

"Yes, sir, but I think I should go home for now...if I may?" 

"If that's what you want, I won't stop you." Dad took off again and I hurried to keep pace. 

* * *

"Morning, Grandma," I said as I approached to offer a customary kiss on her cheek, startling her with my unexpected appearance from the mud room. 

"Ben!" She jumped and clutched her chest, so I leaned in to calm her with a kiss. 

"Sorry I scared you. I didn't mean to." 

"Where in heaven's name have you been? I thought you were fast asleep." 

"No, ma'am. I, um, went for a walk." 

"Morning, Mother," Dad said as he entered the kitchen from the mud room. 

" With Dad," I added in support of my story. 

"Put this away, will you, son," Dad said as he tossed me his pack before sitting at the table. 

"Yes, sir." I quickly hid the pack behind my back, hoping my grandmother wouldn't ask questions. For once, she didn't. Thinking back on it, I imagine she knew all about my attempt to run away. 

"Well, fine, it's about time you were out of bed, young man," she declared, running her fingers through my hair to detangle the snarls. "I was beginning to worry that you were malingering." 

"No, ma'am," I replied, scowling as she pulled at my hair. "Um, Grandma, I can comb my own hair." 

"Perhaps you can, but you haven't, have you? There's such a thing as too much inactivity, and apparently being laid up in bed has made you lazy," she surmised just before triumphantly liberating a particularly malignant knot of hair. 

I stepped out of easy reach and rubbed my sore head. "I was just...tired, ma'am. And the doctor said I should rest. But I was starting to go nuts in bed all day." 

Grandma put her arm around my waist and led me to the kitchen table, where I took a seat. "Very well. I'd say that's a good sign, eh? You must be feeling a little better if you wanted to get up." 

"Yeah, a little, I guess." I was well aware that my words weren't spoken with much conviction. The fact was I did feel a bit better, physically, but emotionally I was still a wreck. 

"Your breakfast is just about ready. And we have grapefruit juice today," she told me cheerfully as she poured me a tall glass. 

"I don't really feel like it today, Grandma." 

"Your grandfather bought this especially for you, Ben, as a birthday surprise. He knows it's your favourite." 

"My birthday?" I had completely forgotten about my birthday. "It's today?" 

"Hmm," she nodded. "Same day as last year and every year before that." 

"I guess I lost track of time." 

"No wonder, I suppose. Well, drink this up and things'll be clearer." 

"Thanks, ma'am, but I'm just not very hungry for anything this morning. I'm sorry." 

"Nonsense! Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. It replenishes you after the long night and prepares your body to face the challenges ahead." She placed a plate before me on which two soft-boiled eggs sat atop two slices of bannock flanked by three strips of bacon. "Eat every last bit of that and you'll be ready to face the day." 

I frowned. My grandmother had always had a thing about breakfast, and I knew this wasn't going to be an easy battle. "No, thank you, Grandma," I replied politely and pushed the plate aside. "Maybe later." 

"Robert," Grandma said, distracting him from his gun cleaning. "Speak to your son. He claims he doesn't need breakfast this morning." 

Dad looked at my untouched plate. "You're not gonna eat that, son?" he asked, pointing. 

"No, sir." 

"Mind if I -- ?" 

"Help yourself." 

He took the plate eagerly and began to eat. "Coffee, Mother?" he inquired politely. 

Grandma was obviously fuming as she poured him a mug of coffee and then stood at his side, holding it just out of his reach. "I oughta pour this over that thick skull of yours!" she threatened. She'd never actually do that, of course, and we all knew it. 

"Mother, please," Dad said, attempting, without success, to take the mug from her. 

"I ask you to tell the boy to eat his breakfast and instead you eat it yourself! What's the matter with you, Robert?" 

"Nothing a good cup of coffee won't fix! Now, please, Mother, may I have it?" He held out his hand and Grandma acquiesced and handed him the hot mug, which he wrapped his fingers around in a tight, victorious grasp, unprepared for the scalding sting. "Ow! Christ!" he cursed and dropped the mug to the tabletop carelessly, allowing a good deal of the coffee to spill from it. "Satisfied?" 

Grandma pinched his ear sharply and scolded, "I'll be satisfied when you stop cursing and make your son eat his breakfast." 

"I can't very well stuff the food down his throat, now, can I?" 

"You could at least find out why he's not eating." Grandma sat down across from Dad, to the other side of me. 

"Fine, if that's what you want," Dad huffed and then addressed me without looking in my direction. "Why aren't you eating, son?" 

"Because I'm not hungry, sir." 

"Okay, Mother, there you have it. The boy's not hungry." Dad tried to go back to eating his own meal, but Grandma was not ready to let it drop. 

"Did you ask him why he's not hungry?" 

"Why aren't you hungry, son?" 

"What do you mean, why, Dad?" 

"What do you mean, why, Mother?" 

"For heaven's sake, Robert, stop this childishness! I could almost accept it from Ben, but at your age, it's very unbecoming." 

When I saw Dad glance sideways at me, not quite suppressing an impish smirk, I had to lower my eyes for fear that my face would betray a similar expression of disrespect towards my grandmother. She did not see anything amusing about the situation, and neither did I, actually. But, despite Dad's ability to upset me quite frequently, he also had a devilish talent for making me laugh when I least expected or wanted to laugh. 

"I don't know how you can smile at a time like this," Grandma retorted. 

"At a time like what, for Chrissakes?" 

"Your son was almost beaten to death, or did that escape your attention?" 

"No, of course it didn't. I'm the one who found him, if you recall." 

"All right, then." 

"All right then, what?" he asked with exasperation. 

"If you'd been around more often to begin with, this never would've happened." 

"What?" Dad exclaimed. "Now how can you possibly know that, Mother?" 

"Because I know your son a lot better than you know him. I've done the best I can for him since his mother died his grandfather and I both have but there's one thing we can't give him, and that's his father. We can't give him you, Robert." 

Dad stared at the table as she spoke and, although he didn't say anything, I could see the anger growing in him. I became very uneasy and wished my grandmother would shut up, but, naturally, I couldn't tell her that. Nor could I get up and leave the room, as that would have been considered equally rude. I caught Grandma's eye as I looked from Dad to her and it was apparent that she understood my uneasiness without the need for a word from me. She wrinkled her mouth and paused for a sigh of frustration, then continued her scolding of Dad, but with a noticeably softer tone of voice. 

"Ben craves your attention, son. Can't you see that that's what this was all about?" 

"It had nothing to do with me," Dad answered, without raising his eyes. "It was about bringing a dangerous criminal to justice or trying to, at any rate," he added with a quick glance at me. "Nothing wrong with that." 

"It's no job for a fifteen-year-old boy. Unfortunately, Ben learned that the hard way." 

"Yes, I suppose he did." Dad scrutinized me for several seconds then said, "Fifteen? Is that all you are, son?" 

"No, sir, I'm sixteen. Today." 

"Really? Well, that's fine," he remarked as he went back to eating without so much as a 'Happy Birthday'. 

"There's nothing fine about a boy endangering his life to get his father's attention," my grandmother declared angrily. 

Dad's head shot up and he met Grandma's eyes. "What's that?" 

"You're proud that he risked his life in order to try to bring in a criminal." 

"Er, yeah, well," Dad stammered and coughed as if he were the criminal and had been caught red-handed. "What's so wrong about that? Would you rather I was ashamed of him?" 

"No, certainly not. I'd rather you could be proud of him without his having to play Mountie because he thinks that's the only thing that matters to you." 

"Don't be ridiculous. He wasn't playing Mountie." 

"Wasn't he?" 

Dad turned his head and looked at me, his eyes disappearing in a squint as he regarded me thoughtfully. "Is that what you were doing, Benton? Playing Mountie?" 

"Um...uh..." I wasn't sure how to answer so I settled on a shrug. Then I held my breath and waited for some sign from Dad to show me whether he was pleased or angry, as it was impossible to tell. But before he said anything, he dropped his head again. 

"You're my son, not a Mountie," he stated firmly. 

"I know, sir." 

"Then act like you know it," he raised his voice. 

"Yes, sir." 

And with that he got up from the table and left the house. 

"I'm sorry, honey," my grandmother broke a momentary silence. 

"It's not your fault," I replied softly, then stood up and mumbled, "May I be excused, please?" 

"In a minute. Sit down, please, Ben. I have a few things to say to you." 

"About what?" I asked, tentatively, fidgeting with the cast on my right arm. 

"Sit down and I'll tell you." 

I obeyed, but I was really starting to regret having ventured out of bed that morning. It wasn't clear whether my grandmother was about to offer words of comfort or a reprimand, although her stern attitude led me to suspect the latter. It didn't really matter, however, because I was in no mood for either. "I'm quite tired, Grandma," I said, hoping to convince her to cut this short -- whatever it was. 

"Hmm," she replied with a scowl of disapproval. "You can't expect to feel otherwise if you don't eat." 

I nodded to acknowledge her, then asked, "May I eat something in my room?" 

"When I'm finished with you. I realize you're still recovering from a very painful ordeal, but I think I'd be remiss if I didn't sit you down for a serious talk." 

"My turn to get yelled at?" I asked. 

"Sassing me is not a wise move under the circumstances, Benton!" 

"Yes, ma'am. Sorry. I guess you're, um, angry with me?" I offered, peeking up at her from lowered eyes. 

"Do I have reason to be?" Her question almost sounded rhetorical, but I knew she wanted an answer. Unfortunately, my half-hearted shrug didn't satisfy her. She cleared her throat until I looked at her. "Trust is a very fragile thing, Ben. It takes a good deal of time to build trust between people and it only takes one small betrayal of that trust to destroy it." 

"Yes, ma'am." 

"You lied to your grandfather and me when we trusted you to be honest with us." 

I turned my eyes from her in shame and whispered a weak, "Sorry." There was no doubt that I fully deserved her anger, so I steeled myself to accept her censure. 

"Now, you might think you had good reason to justify such an action, but let me tell you, no good can come from a lie. You'll find that out soon enough because you're going to pay a high price for that lie." 

"I already did, ma'am." I was thinking of Charlotte as I spoke those words, but I knew that my grandmother would assume I was referring to my physical wounds. 

"I'm talking about the lost trust between us. Perhaps that doesn't seem as significant as the beating you suffered, but, believe me, it's going to take a lot longer to repair that broken trust than it will for your broken bones to heal." 

"Yes, ma'am. Understood." 

"Is it understood?" 

"Yes. You, um, don't trust me anymore." 

"I don't see how I can. You lied and your behaviour was reckless and dangerous. I'm afraid that's going to result in some changes around here." 

"What kind of changes, ma'am?" 

"Your grandfather and I will be discussing that with you in more detail. For now, suffice it to say you may expect to lose some privileges and freedoms. We're obviously going to have to keep a closer eye on you." 

"Forever?" 

"Until we're satisfied that you can handle the responsibility. And, make no mistake, that's going to take some time. You have sorely disappointed us, Benton." 

I responded with a silent nod. I could very easily have broken down in an earnest sob at that moment, and Grandma's rebuke was just the tip of the iceberg. It effectively served to reinforce the feelings of self-loathing which I was already experiencing because of the whole tragic affair. The only thing I could imagine making me feel any more worthless would be surrendering to tears, so I resolved not to. 

"I'm sorry if it seems I'm being hard on you, honey, but I wouldn't be doing you any favours in the long run by pretending none of this ever happened." 

"I know. This is all my own fault, ma'am, and I deserve your anger. I'm so sorry I let you down. Truly, I am," I whispered through the gritted teeth of my set jaw. 

"That's a good start," Grandma offered soberly. "Anything else on your mind? Anything you'd like to talk about, honey?" 

"No, ma'am, I don't think so," I replied, shaking my head. 

"Sure?" 

"Uh huh," I nodded. 

"All right, then." Grandma rose from her chair and began to clear the breakfast dishes from the table. "You may go to your room." 

I stood up slowly, debating whether to ask the question on my mind. "Ma'am?" 

"Yes?" 

"Um, should I, um, stay there? I mean, are you confining me to my room?" 

"No. As I said, we'll discuss the consequences of your behaviour later." 

"Yes, ma'am." I started to leave, but my grandmother's lecture had really unsettled me. The fear that things would never be the same between us stopped me in my tracks. 

"Are you all right," Grandma asked upon seeing me loitering in the doorway. 

"Uh huh," I answered and then turned as if to leave, but was again prevented from doing so by the uneasiness in my heart. "Grandma?" 

"Yes?" 

"When I was little and I did something wrong, you would just punish me and then everything was all right again." 

"That was my job when you were little, to set you straight. But I think by now you should be practicing some self-discipline. I won't always be there to do it for you, you know." 

"Yes, ma'am." I smiled uncertainly, then bowed my head when Grandma put one hand on my shoulder and raised her other hand, which held a spatula. 

"Shall I warm your britches?" she teased -- at least I think she was teasing. She hadn't whacked me in years. My grandmother had become quite creative with my punishments, especially as I grew older. 

"Geez, Grandma, on my birthday?" 

"If that's what you need on your birthday. You tell me. Do you need me to make everything all right again?" 

"No," I replied with a bashful smirk. "Aren't I too old for that, ma'am?" 

"I don't know. Are you?" 

"Yes." 

"Good, because, truth be told, so am I," she said, wearily, dropping her spatula-laden hand to her side. The blush on my face deepened as my grandmother pinched my cheeks and smiled affectionately. "Clearly, a frail, old woman like myself shouldn't have to take a big, strapping boy like you over her knee, but if it's necessary--" 

"It's not," I interrupted decisively. "It's not. But, gosh, Grandma, you're not frail and you're not all that old," I hastened to assure her. 

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Mister!" she warned with a playful tug on my ear. 

"Yes, ma'am, but, um, what can I do?" 

"What can you do about what, dear?" 

"To make up for lying so you and Grandpa can forgive me and, um, trust me again?" 

"We've forgiven you, Ben." 

"You have?" 

"Of course. But, now, as to the matter of trust...as I said, you're going to have to earn that." 

"But how?" 

"Same as you earned it before -- by behaving responsibly. You made a poor choice, so now it's up to you to show us you'll make better choices in the future." 

"Yes, ma'am. I will. I mean I'll sure try to." 

"Good. Now, you go get some rest, okay, so tomorrow you can start doing a little work around here." 

"Okay, ma'am." I was about to leave, but there was one more question I had to get off my chest. "Grandma?" 

"Hmm?" 

"Do you not want me to be a Mountie?" 

"Not yet, no. You're still a boy." 

"No, I mean when I'm old enough." 

"When you're old enough, all I want is for you to be a good man. You do that and I'll be pleased to see you do whatever makes you happy." 

"How about Dad? What do you think he wants me to do?" 

"I'm sure he wants no less for you than I do." 

"What if I wasn't a Mountie or, what if I wasn't a good Mountie, as good as Dad?" 

"Heavens, Ben, what is all this fretting about? You're you, you're not your father." 

"I know, but...how do I know if I'd be a good Mountie?" 

"Same as anything else you give it your best." 

"But what if that's not good enough?" 

"Not good enough for who, pray, tell?" 

"I don't know," I shrugged, obviously lying. 

"Listen, you can be as good a Mountie as you set your mind to be." Grandma approached me with a plate full of food. "But you won't get very far on an empty stomach," she warned, placing the plate in my hand. "Now, take that to your room and set your mind to eating." 

"I'll try, ma'am." 

But I was able to eat only a very little all that day. My grandmother kept bringing me hearty meals and when she returned to fetch the dirty dishes and found the food barely touched, she'd scowl and, with a frustrated tug to my ear, challenge me with, "I know you can do better than that," to which I would reply, "I did my best, ma'am." She couldn't argue with my best. 

* * *

I awoke with a start just before midnight to discover that my body was trembling. I had been in the midst of a dream -- a nightmare -- and couldn't shake the jitters that had resulted. 

In the nightmare, I was standing beside French in the valley of a remote, snowy mountain. French held a rifle which was trained on his prey, awaiting only the pull of his finger to discharge its duty. I was unable to identify the target, which was at some distance and obscured by the surroundings, and when I questioned French as to what he was preparing to shoot, he simply laughed and said, "Why, it's right there in front of you, boy. Don't you see it?" "It's not clear," I told him and he laughed even louder and replied, "No, it ain't, but it's a threat to our safety, boy, so it's gotta go." I was horrified to learn that he was going to fire on an unidentified object and pleaded with him to reconsider. I tried to get closer to find out what the object was, but French's cohorts held me back as the lot of them snorted as gleefully at my predicament as at that of the prey. In a sudden flash, the object crystallized. It was Charlotte, French's daughter. I turned to plead with French, but suddenly he was gone and my father was in his place. The shot of the rifle reverberated through my body and I awoke. 

The house was peacefully quiet and I knew that, at that hour, everyone would be sound asleep. This realization comforted me because, after that particular nightmare, it was not company I craved, but solitude. In an effort to calm my trembling, I rose from bed and crept out to the living room, where the light of a bright moon had traced a path across the length of the room. I stood just outside the beam of light and watched the dust particles floating and colliding in their tedious descent through the air. 

With no warning and no willingness on my part, I began to weep. It was a quiet weep, at first, tears rushing from my eyes as my body convulsed at their release. But soon a low moan was accompanying the tears with an urgency which suggested that my hum was a necessary part of the purging process. I dropped to my knees and buried my face against the cushion of the sofa, my arms encircling my head as if to contain my cry in that tiny part of the universe. 

"Ben?" I suddenly heard my grandmother's concerned voice and, as I halted my tears and moans, I felt her hand begin to caress the back of my head. "What's the matter, sweetheart?" 

"Nothing, ma'am," I answered, drying my face on my sleeve in a futile attempt to deny my emotionally fragile state. 

"Rubbish! Something's bothering you. You were just crying your eyes out." 

"I'm sorry." 

"You don't have to be sorry, but I'd like you to talk to me. I may be able to help." 

I lifted my head and, after thoroughly composing myself, turned to look at my grandmother. "It's nothing. I just had a, um, disturbing dream. I was stupid to let it get to me, just like a little kid." 

"What was the dream?" 

"Um, I don't know. It was all...weird. It didn't make any sense. You know how dreams are." 

"Yes. Yet it made enough sense to disturb you. Do you know why?" 

"No," I lied, but didn't want to compound the lie by saying anything else about the matter. "I'm okay now. I'll go back to bed." I stood up and Grandma pulled me toward her, draping her arms over my shoulders and clasping her hands behind me. 

"You've been through a lot in the past few weeks, haven't you?" she said more as a statement of fact than as one of sympathy. 

"Yeah, I suppose." 

"More than you want to admit." 

"I'm fine, Grandma." 

"Physically, yes, I think you are. But there's something else, something you're not telling us." 

"No," I squeaked, very unconvincingly, then had to avert my eyes. 

"The longer you hide it, the more it's going to eat away at you. There's a world of truth in the old adage, 'Confession is good for the soul.' Perhaps you should give that some thought." 

"You think I did something wrong that I'm hiding, ma'am?" 

"I don't know, Ben. Did you?" 

"No," I said, shaking my head as I looked away. I could feel my emotions threatening to get the better of me again, and I fought it with all my might. "I don't think so. I just wanted to, um....but I couldn't...um, let her...." Sobs began to erupt from me and I couldn't hold them back, and I didn't really want to. As my grandmother had suggested, I needed the release. So, while Grandma massaged the back of my neck, I wept freely. 

"What happened out there, Ben? What are you afraid to talk about?" 

"I...can't." 

"You can't what?" 

"Tell you." 

"Yes, you can. That's why I'm here, to listen." 

"You don't understand. You don't know..." 

"Then tell me so I can understand." 

"You won't like it." 

"Do you think I like this? Seeing you in this state? When you're hurting, I'm hurting, so, please, honey, don't do this any longer. Tell me what's troubling you." 

I tried to speak, but the only sound I could make was a cry of sorrow, so my grandmother pulled me close and guided my head to her shoulder. Suddenly, when she couldn't see my face, I felt it was safe to confess. "It wasn't supposed to happen." 

"What's that, dear?" She placed a light kiss on my ear and I responded by wrapping my arms around her. I couldn't deny that it was a good feeling to be able to lean on someone for comfort, just as it had felt good when I was six years old and I cried myself to sleep in Grandma's embrace. I started to wish I was a little boy again. Everything was black and white then, or so it had appeared. But I wasn't six years old any more, and everything had become an inscrutable gray. 

"There was this, um, girl." I gasped involuntarily after making this admission and I had to tense up to keep my emotions in check so that I could continue my confession. "I've never met a girl like her before, Grandma." 

"I see. Was she one of the poachers?" 

"No...yes...no." I sighed and prepared to explain. "Her father ran the outfit. She, um, worked for him, but she had no choice. She didn't want to do it. She was stuck, Grandma. She didn't know what else to do." 

"How old is this, er, girl?" 

"Around my age." 

"And what about her mother? Where does she fit in?" 

"She doesn't have a mother. She died when Charlie was little." 

"Charlie?" 

"That's her name, um, Charlotte. People call her Charlie." 

"I see." 

"She's a nice girl, Grandma. She's not a criminal. I couldn't let her get punished for something she had no control over." 

"Ben..." Grandma pulled me from her and held my face so that I had to look at her. "What, er, what happened between you and this girl?" 

"What do you mean?" I knew what she meant, of course. 

"Did you and she...do you...feel affection for this girl?" 

"Um, yeah..." I was pondering whether to admit to an even stronger feeling when we were suddenly interrupted by my father who appeared from the kitchen. 

"Where is she?" he demanded, and Grandma and I both started in surprise. "Where is this girl now?" 

I rubbed my eyes to ensure they were dry then disengaged myself from my grandmother and took a step toward my father. "I don't know, sir." 

"Don't give me that crap!" he shouted then came to stand very close to me, looking at me with anger burning in his eyes. "I heard you telling your grandmother. I heard it all. Now, where is she?" 

I hung my head and shrugged, unable or unwilling to tell him any more than he already knew. I recoiled as I saw him swing his arm around to slap me, but he stopped himself just short of making contact with my already battered face. 

"Don't ignore me, boy!" he warned, pointing an irate finger at me. 

"Robert, calm down, please," my grandmother interceded, standing beside me. "Can't you see that Ben's upset? There's no need to scream at him. He was trying to tell me everything before you interrupted." 

But Dad brushed her aside and drew closer, putting his face within centimetres of mine and speaking lower, but just as angrily. "A pretty young thing, is she? So pretty she can turn a naive boy's head with a smile?" 

"Dad..." 

"So pretty that this naive boy would betray everything he's been taught about right and wrong and justice for the promise of a, er, woman's touch?" he accused with a quick eye movement to indicate my, um, 'nether regions'. 

"No, sir!" I contradicted him fiercely as I blushed and brought my hands around to cover the area in question. 

Dad stepped back and started to pace around me. "You think I don't know, eh? You think I don't remember what it's like to be your age? Raging hormones you can't control. The overwhelming temptations whenever a pretty girl gives you half a look." 

"Dad, please..." It was bad enough that he was making such accusations, but to do so in my grandmother's presence was intolerable. 

"Well, that's a fleeting pleasure, son. Feels mighty good for those few seconds, sure, but it's not lasting. It's not gonna make you feel good where it really counts -- in your soul. So, you just think about that. Is it worth losing your soul for a quick --" Rather than finish his sentence, he kneed me in the groin, which was more startling and embarrassing than it was painful. 

I doubled over to shelter that most sensitive and private area and vented my extreme displeasure. "Dad! Please stop saying those things! It wasn't like that!" 

"Are you telling me you didn't fall for this girl?" he asked with a piercing stare. 

I couldn't answer him, I just couldn't. It would have meant either admitting that I had fallen for Charlotte which, contrary to my father's opinion, I didn't consider a weakness or lying to him by denying my feelings for her. I couldn't live with the results of doing either, so, after favouring him with a scowl, I turned away and started to walk toward my bedroom. 

"Don't you walk away from me, Mister!" Dad warned. "I'm your father, and, by God, you're gonna show me the respect I deserve!" 

"Who says you deserve my respect?" I answered petulantly, standing with my back to him. 

"Oh, I'd watch that fresh mouth if I were you, son," Dad said coolly but with clear irritation. 

"Yeah, well, you're not me." I spoke those words almost under my breath. Although I knew such behaviour toward an elder was unacceptable, I reckoned he had earned my insolence. My grandmother disagreed, however. 

"Benton, apologize to your father." 

"No." 

"You will apologize, young man," she insisted. 

"No, I won't." 

"Yes, you will." 

"No. Why should I?" 

"If you don't know the answer to that question, then I have obviously failed you." 

"No, ma'am, _you_ haven't failed me," I looked at my feet and stated. 

"Well, then?" she prompted me. 

Against my will, I presented myself before my father and looked him surely in the eye. "I'm sorry for being disrespectful, sir." 

Dad scowled, more in discomfort than in anger, then lowered his eyes and sighed, his hands on his hips in frustration. 

"May I be excused, please?" I asked. 

Dad shook his head, but didn't look up at me. "We got 'em, you know. French and his cronies." He finally looked up to see my reaction, which was an odd mix of shock, pride, and fear. "After you, uh, scared 'em off, we lost them for a while, but eventually Buck and I tracked them over the pass. They were holed up just across the river. Thought they could blend in with the villagers." 

"They were that close?" I found it hard to believe it was mere coincidence and wondered with a certain amount of alarm whether they had tracked me down and had been on their way to finish me off. 

Dad nodded once then frowned and moved closer to me. "There was no girl with them." 

"No?" I repressed my pleasure at that news. 

"I want to know whatever you know about her, understand?" 

"I really can't tell you anything more than I already have, sir." 

"Can't or won't?" he queried severely. 

"I don't know where she is, sir. That's the truth." 

"What _do_ you know?" 

"Nothing. What _could_ I know?" 

"You spent some time with her, presumably. Eh?" 

"I spent time with all of them, sir." 

"You know what I mean!" he yelled, near the end of his rope. "Listen, son, I'm not giving up until you tell me something, so you may as well talk." He paused, but I made no response. "All right, we'll do this the hard way. When was the last time you saw her?" 

_Oh dear! How was I ever gonna survive that question?_ I hemmed and hawed, alternating glances between my father, my grandmother, and the floor. 

"It's a simple question, Ben. The last time you saw her. You remember?" 

"Um, yes, sir." 

"All right, let's hear it. Or are you too ashamed?" 

"There's nothing for me to be ashamed about." Strictly speaking, that wasn't true. I was ashamed, but not for the reasons my father suspected. 

"Fine, then answer me." 

Well, there was no getting around it. I was going to have to tell him. I held my good arm behind me, focused my eyes just off to one side of him, and came clean. "It was after, um, after they..." 

"After they beat you?" 

"Yes, sir. They were going to kill me, I was sure of it. I lost consciousness and when I woke up later, they had all fled except for Charlie. She was there, um, tending to my wounds. She somehow convinced them not to kill me. I owe her my life, sir." 

"Uh huh. Go on." 

I breathed deeply, then continued. "I told her you would be coming soon." 

"Who did you tell her was coming, your father or a Mountie?" 

"Both, sir. I told her my father was a Mountie. She was angry that I had lied to her, but she still wanted to stay with me, to make sure I was all right till you got there." 

"She didn't stay, though, did she?" 

"No, sir." 

"It was more important to her to run from the law than to stay with you, eh?" 

"No, sir. It was me." 

"What was you?" 

"I, um, made her leave, sir." 

"You did _what?_ " 

"I told her she'd be arrested if you found her there. I insisted that she leave, that she, um...run away." I knew he wasn't going to like hearing that, so I hung my head to avoid seeing the look on his face. 

Dad moved away and slammed his fist against the wall, causing him to cry out in pain and anger. 

"She's a child, Robert," my grandmother reminded him. 

"She was involved in criminal activity. Was she not, Benton?" 

"Yes, sir, but " 

"No 'but's. I don't want to hear any 'but's. Understand?" 

"Yes, sir." 

Dad approached me again and squeezed my shoulder before questioning me. He restrained his emotion at first, but gradually his fury increased and his grip on my shoulder tightened. "Has someone appointed you judge and jury? Eh?" 

"No, sir..." 

"You get to decide who deserves to be punished, who should be let go, who should be shot between the beady little eyes and thrown off the nearest cliff? Huh?" 

I have to tell you, I was mighty frightened of my father at that moment. I'd known he would be disappointed in me, but I hadn't bargained for this degree of rage. "No, sir," I whispered with a tiny shake of my head, trying not to cry out in the pain he was causing me. 

"Robert, let him go," Grandma intervened, pulling my father's hand from my shoulder. "You're overreacting. You really expect too much from the boy, sometimes." 

"He's almost an adult, for crying out loud!" 

"And he's going to make some mistakes as he grows up. He'll probably even make a mistake now and then when he _is_ an adult, just like the rest of us." 

Dad stepped back to calm himself, hanging his head and holding his arm out to silence Grandma while he collected himself. "Listen, son," he began, looking sideways at me, "my job is to arrest anyone who has broken the law." 

"Yes, sir, I know." 

"It's not up to me to make judgment calls about who's guilty enough to apprehend and who's been a victim of extenuating circumstances and should, therefore, be pardoned. There's a whole justice system to handle that. We have to let them do their jobs." 

"Yes, sir." 

"A lawman can't get emotionally involved. He's gotta keep his professional distance or he'll never survive in this business. No Mountie would last a day on the Force if he let his emotions dictate his actions." 

"Yes, sir." 

My father moved closer to me and glowered. "If you were a Mountie and it was discovered that you'd allowed a law-breaker to get away, especially a pretty female law-breaker with whom it was suspected you had, er, you know..." 

"Yes, sir." I blushed and looked down. 

"...you'd quickly find yourself before a Review Board facing serious disciplinary charges, which might very well result in the permanent loss of your badge -- or worse." 

"Understood, sir. I'm, um, ready for whatever punishment you want to give me, sir." 

"So, you're admitting you and this girl, er, you know...?" 

"I'm admitting that I let her get away, sir." 

"Damn it!" he cursed in a frustrated whisper. 

"The boy's not a Mountie, Robert," my grandfather spoke after having quietly entered the room, unseen by any of us. 

"Yes, Dad," my father sighed. "That's very apparent. He is _my_ son, however, so, if you don't mind, I'll handle this." 

"Of course. And you're _my_ son." 

"What's that supposed to mean?" 

"Nothing, nothing. Except that I have expectations of you, just as you have of Benton. We may have our differences of opinion now and then, but, more often than not, I can count on you to accord others the basic respect due any human being. Legend has it, any law-breaker caught by Robert Fraser deems it an honour to serve his sentence in return for the civility with which you arrested him. A liberal exaggeration, perhaps, but, I trust you would agree that Ben deserves no less civility from you." 

Dad nodded reluctantly in acknowledgment of Grandpa and then fixed his eyes upon me in silence for a moment. Finally, he looked down, took a deep breath, and spoke. "What do you think you deserve from me, son, eh?" 

I shrugged and thought for a few seconds, then replied, "I don't blame you for being angry with me, sir." 

"No?" 

"No, sir. I made a mess of everything." 

"Yep, that you did. You want to square things?" he offered. 

"Yes, sir. More than anything." 

"Good, good. Well, then, go ahead. All you have to do is tell me where the girl is. Tell me, and we're square. Defy me, and we're not. It's up to you." 

I hesitated, then, with a shake of my head, replied, "I'm not defying you, sir. I told you, I don't know where she is. I can't tell you something I don't know." 

He looked at me disapprovingly then slumped into a chair with his back to me and my heart broke into countless pieces. 

"Do you believe me, sir?" 

I received no audible answer. Dad just put his hand to his temple and began to massage it. 

"Please believe me. I wouldn't lie to you, sir." 

"I used to believe that, son. I've always been able to count on you to tell me the truth, no matter what." 

"Yes, sir." 

"But tonight I discovered you've been withholding information from me since I found you. What would you call that if not lying?" 

He had me there. It was true I'd withheld information which I knew would anger him, and I believed myself the biggest coward alive for having done so. "Yes, sir. I'm sorry. I really am. But I'm not lying now, sir. I swear to God, I don't know where Charlie is." 

"Never mind dragging God into this. You lied without his help, you can tell the truth without it as well." 

"I'm trying to do as you ask, Dad. Honest, I am." 

"Trying, eh? Is it so difficult?" 

"Most of the time it's not, but sometimes...sometimes I just don't know what to do." 

There was a tense silence as I watched my father digesting my words. "Yeah, same here," he finally sighed, and I was certain that I was the cause of his dilemma. 

"Dad?" 

"Hmm?" 

"Are you gonna, um, go after Charlotte?" 

"After everything I just said to you, that's all you're worried about?" 

"No, sir." 

"Hmm, good." 

He didn't answer my question, so I had to ask again, "Are you going to, Dad?" 

"I'm gonna do my job, the same as I've always done. With or without your cooperation. At the very least, she'd be an important material witness." 

"Then shouldn't you arrest me, sir? I, um, was there, just like Charlie was." 

"If it becomes necessary to arrest you, you'll be the first to know." 

"Yes, sir." I roughly brushed aside a stray tear while my dad couldn't see me. "May I, um, be dismissed now, sir? Or are you gonna, um...do you have more to say to me?" I asked, my lips quivering with the effort of holding back a sob of despair. 

"Go. I've finished with you." He waved me off as if he couldn't stand to have me in his presence for another second. 

To my horror and shame, I realized that my eyes were filling with tears, so I blinked rapidly several times to clear them. "I'm sorry, Dad," I croaked over the growing lump in my throat. The only acknowledgment I received was a low grunt, so I ran to my room in search of escape from his condemnation. 

* * *

Moments later, there was a knock at my door. I couldn't bear to face my dad, so I ignored the knock in the hope that he would go away. But it wasn't my father who had knocked. 

"Ben, may I come in?" my grandmother's voice followed a second rap on the door. 

"I'd rather be alone, Grandma." 

"Yes, I know. I won't be long, honey." 

I hesitated as I debated whether to allow her to enter. "Okay," I heard myself utter reluctantly as I stood at the window, staring out into the dark night. I didn't bother to dry the tears from my face as I reckoned the darkness would hide them. 

My grandmother came into the room and closed the door behind her. "You know your father loves you, Ben," she said as if reminding me that I knew the sum of two and two. 

I let out a sardonic laugh and shook my head. "Right about now, he's probably wishing I _had_ wound up dead at the bottom of a canyon." 

"Now, you stop that talk this instant! You know perfectly well that's not true, and I won't have it! Do you hear me?" 

"Yes, ma'am. Sorry." 

Grandma crossed the room and lit my bedside lamp, and I turned abruptly and leaned against the window frame, my back to her. "You're experiencing growing pains, honey." 

"You always say that. How long are these growing pains gonna last?" 

"Well, it's hard to say. For as long as you've got growing to do, I reckon." 

"But couldn't that be a long time yet?" 

"Yes, it could. If we're lucky, we never stop growing." 

"Lucky? Heck, I'd just as soon die and get it over with." 

Grandma quickly came around to face me and greeted my cheek with a stinging slap. She had never slapped me in the face before, and both of us were left a bit stunned by her action. "I'm sorry, honey," she said, sorrowfully. 

"It's okay. I probably deserved it." I turned away from her again. 

"No, you didn't deserve it. Your statement frightened me, and I acted rashly. I'm sorry." 

"Okay. I'm sorry, too for scaring you." 

"Think, honey. Would you honestly rather be dead?" 

I shrugged to feign indecision, but in fact, at that moment, I felt very strongly that dying would be a relief. 

"Listen, Ben, it's not uncommon to feel that way -- to think that dying would be preferable to living in pain, emotional or physical. People have been known to take their own lives because they were chronically or terminally ill. And we've euthanized our own animals when it became necessary. But if you'll stop and think about it, you'll realize you're neither ill nor dying." 

"I might as well be." 

"No, that's not true, and I've already told you to stop saying such things! I don't want to have to say it again, you hear?" 

I didn't answer. I didn't want her to have to slap me again because that'd only upset her even more. 

"It may be difficult for you to believe right now, honey, but growth is a good thing. It can be painful, yes, but the pain is temporary. Once you accept it and move on, the pain diminishes because you're a stronger and wiser person." She came and stood beside me and began to rub her hand up and down my back. "Too many people, including a distressing number of youngsters your age, don't stick around long enough to learn that they can survive the pain and find a life worth living. I believe you have the strength to survive, Ben." 

"But what if I don't?" 

"That's a self-defeating attitude. Think you're weak and you'll be weak. But if, instead, you think yourself strong, you will be strong." 

"I think I'm just too cowardly to die." I knew I shouldn't have said that as soon as the words passed my lips. My grandmother didn't speak, but I could feel her glaring at me. "Sorry," I said, and dropped my head. 

"You possess many qualities, honey, but I've never known cowardice to be among them." 

"Everybody's afraid of something, Grandma." 

"Yes, they are. But fear and cowardice are two different things. Cowards run from what they fear. Do you intend to run?" 

I didn't answer right away because that was exactly what I wished I could do run. But there was a part of me the stronger part, I suppose that refused to do so. "I'm not gonna kill myself, Grandma, if that's what you're worried about." 

"Would you tell me if you were?" she asked. 

"I don't know. You'd probably stop me." When those words came out of my mouth, they sounded more like a question than a statement. Even if I wouldn't admit it to myself at the time, I think I needed to know that my grandmother wouldn't sit idly by and let me end my life. 

"I'd do everything in my power to stop you, honey." 

"Yes, ma'am." 

I heard her take a seat on my bed and waited anxiously as she sat silently for so long that I began to wonder if she expected me to speak. "Love is rarely easy, Ben," she finally said. 

"Yes, ma'am." 

"You love your father, yet you can't always do what he would want you to do. So why should you expect any better from him?" 

"Yes, ma'am." 

"As for this girl, I must say I'm a bit concerned. I hope you didn't do anything you're not ready for." 

"Yes, ma'am." 

"Yes, you did, or yes, you didn't?" 

I made no reply, but kept staring out the window. 

"Honey, I must insist...I need to know what happened between you and Charlotte." 

Tears streamed anew from my eyes as I thought about how to answer. "Love," I whispered. 

"Are you saying...were you...lovers?" 

"A gentleman doesn't talk about that. You've always told me that, ma'am." 

"I know, honey, I know. I'm not asking you to tell tales out of school, and I don't wish to make you uncomfortable by asking you to share such...private matters with me. I'm asking you to help me to understand what you're feeling, and, in order to understand, I need an answer to my question." 

"Did Dad make you come in here and ask me that?" 

"Have you ever known your father to make me do anything?" 

The truth was I had seen my father sway my grandmother on occasion sometimes to my liking, sometimes not. But I wasn't about to throw that in her face. "No, ma'am." 

"This has nothing to do with your father; it's between you and me." 

"You mean, if I told you Charlie and I, um..." 

"I mean that whatever you tell me is nobody's business but ours. What you tell your father or what you don't tell him is your decision." 

"Um...then isn't it also my decision what I tell you, ma'am?" 

"Yes, it is." The way she then looked at me, challenging my better instincts, proved more impelling than any verbal command could've done. 

"We loved each other, Grandma. Truly." 

"I understand. And did you consummate that love?" 

I said nothing right away. I was so curious to know how my grandmother would react if I answered 'yes,' that I considered lying just to find out. However, as I feared another lie would only make matters much worse, I opted for a different course. "Would you be angry if, um, if we did?" 

"No," she answered gravely, "I won't be angry. I do believe it would be unwise for you to enter into such a relationship at this point in your life, but, ultimately, only you could decide whether you had made a mistake. All I can do is be here for you when you need me. So, you see, it's perfectly safe to answer my question." 

"I'm not afraid to answer you, Grandma, but...but I already betrayed Charlie once. I can't do it again. I can't." 

"From the events you've described this evening, it sounds to me as if you put her welfare before your own. I wouldn't call that a betrayal." 

"I lied to her. I told her I was someone I wasn't." 

"Do you think she wants you to suffer for that mistake for the rest of your life? If she truly loves you, she'd want you to forgive yourself." 

"She doesn't love me anymore. She couldn't. Not after she found out what I did." 

"Why not? Did you take advantage of her?" 

I spun my head around and looked at my grandmother. "She thinks I did. She thinks I, um, pretended to like her." 

"Then she obviously doesn't know you very well, does she?" Grandma suggested gently. 

"The only things I lied about were my name and what I was doing there. I never lied about how I felt about her. And I never used her just to, um, get what I wanted." I became a little angry as I thought back on my behaviour with Charlie. "And she should know that because I...um..." 

"You what, Ben?" 

I bowed my head and turned to face the window once more. "Said 'no' when a lot of other guys would've said 'yes' even though I...I wished I could...say 'yes'." 

There was a sigh of relief from my grandmother, and then she resumed her lecture on growing up. "Chances are you're going to experience feelings such as those you have for Charlotte many times over the years..." 

I shook my head, knowing I would never feel for anyone else what I felt for Charlotte. 

"...but it's not always going to work out the way you'd like it to. Nobody has life that easy." 

"Yes, ma'am." 

"Eventually, if you're fortunate, you'll find the right person, the person you can share your love with for the rest of your life." 

"Yes, ma'am." I'd heard her gentle voice and understood that she was trying to offer some comfort, but I was beyond listening to what she had to say. My despair was impenetrable and I believed it would be so forever. 

"You're not listening to a word I say, are you?" 

"Yes, ma'am," I replied in the same absent-minded manner of my previous replies. 

"I see." She stood up, took a couple steps toward the door, then stopped and faced me again. "Shall I send your father in to speak with you?" 

"Yes, ma'am." Seconds later I realized what I had just said and whirled around to stop my grandmother who was on her way out of my room. "No, Grandma, don't!" 

"I know, honey. I was just testing your ears." 

"My ears?" I queried with a sniffle and a quick blotting of my face with the side of my arm. 

She approached, grabbed my ears one at a time, and peered into them. "Uh huh. Just as I suspected." 

"What?" I asked, flinching as she used her fingers to perform a series of strange tests on my ears and other parts of my head. 

"May just be wax build-up, but I think we should have you checked out. Might be an infection." 

"An infection?" 

"Possibly. I couldn't say for sure. If it's the inner ear, I won't be able to see it." 

"But my ears feel fine, ma'am." 

"Mmm, your hearing's a little off, though, it would seem. Have you had any other symptoms lately?" 

"Like what?" 

"Oh, like dizziness, for instance?" 

"Um, yeah, actually I did, um, have some dizziness several days ago." 

Grandma nodded knowingly. "Inability to focus your eyes?" 

"Yeah, kinda..." 

"How about feeling as if the world around you is spinning out of control?" 

"Wow! Those all mean you have an ear infection?" 

"Sometimes. An infection can cause an imbalance in your inner ear which could result in such symptoms. We'll let the doctor have a look at you, eh?" 

"Okay, ma'am." 

"In the meantime, a good night's sleep wouldn't hurt either of us," she said with a wry smile. 

"Yes, ma'am. Good night." I smiled as she kissed my cheek and tugged my ear affectionately. I stopped her once more as she reached the door. "Grandma?" 

"Yes, honey?" 

"Thank you." 

She barely resisted smiling as she regarded me with raised eyebrows. "No more shenanigans tonight, you understand? It's very late. If I have to get out of bed again " she threatened with mock severity, sounding very much like the grandma of my youth who occasionally had to finish _and_ follow through on such a warning. 

"You won't, ma'am." 

She smiled, winked, and was gone. 

* * *

Dad disappeared the next day. He left that morning for work, as usual, but he didn't return at night as he had been doing since the incident with the seal poachers. No further mention had been made of Charlotte or my perceived refusal to cooperate in locating her. I was torn between attributing Dad's flight to the fact that I was on the mend and his presence was no longer needed or to the possibility that this was his way of denying my existence. Perhaps it was both...or something else altogether. All I can say with certainty is that I was deeply hurt. Initially, I was angry at him, but as time progressed, I managed to convince myself that I was entirely to blame for my father's absence, as well as for everything else. 

As the weeks passed, Grandma did her best to keep me occupied, both physically and mentally, by delegating a host of light chores to me and filling the remainder of my days with periods of study or exercise. She dismissed my assertion that my arm cast excluded me from piano practice, insisting that a little plaster was no barrier to tapping the keys. She proved right about that; however, my heart simply wasn't in it. More than once she remarked with displeasure that every tune I played on the piano sounded like a dirge. She'd stand behind me as I played and yell out things like, "Lighter, Ben, lighter. This is supposed to evoke pleasant feelings!" or "No, no, no. Since when was that song written in a minor key, young man?" to which I would respond contrarily, "I like it better this way." Then, after a firm tug on my ear, she'd banish me to the library to help my grandfather with whatever busy work he could find for me. 

Julie Frobisher showed up one day, asking if I wanted to go for a walk. It was very nice of her to stop by, but, as it was common knowledge that she did all of her 'walking' with Charles Gerrard, I reckoned my grandmother had asked her to visit -- just to remind me that there were other fish in the sea. Grandma denied it when I questioned her later, as did Julie when I dropped subtle hints about my doubts that she had come to see me of her own volition. I fear I wasn't very good company that day and it shames me to admit that I didn't make her feel as welcome and appreciated as she was. 

"You're awfully quiet, Ben," Julie announced as we strolled along the river. "You may as well be walking by yourself." 

"Hmm." 

"Should I leave?" 

"No. My grandmother doesn't want me going for long walks by myself. She says I need the distraction of companionship." 

"I'm not doing a very good job distracting you, am I?" 

"You're, um, you're doing okay." 

"You're not talking and I'm pretty sure you're not listening to me talk, either." 

"I heard you, Julie." 

"Okay, then, what did I say?" she challenged me as she brought our walk to a standstill. 

"Umm..." My mind raced as I panicked at my inability to recall one word she had said. 

"See, I knew it." She resumed walking so suddenly and at such a quick pace that I had to run to catch her. 

"No, wait. Hold on a minute, Julie." I blocked her path so that she'd stop walking. "What do you mean? You want me to tell you _everything_ you said?" 

"Oh, I'll settle for one sentence at this point. If you can't remember one sentence, I'm leaving." 

"One sentence. Okay, fine." I could feel my face burning with embarrassment and the strain of concentration as I closed my eyes and desperately searched my memory for anything spoken by Julie in the last forty-five minutes. 

"Boy, you sure know how to make a girl feel special, Ben Fraser!" she declared sarcastically. "No wonder you don't have a girlfriend." 

The sound of Julie's teasing took me back to another time and place, a time and place to which I had thought I could never return. As I stood there with my eyes closed, Charlotte appeared before me, smiling demurely to betray the flirtation behind her mocking jests. I opened my eyes and still it was Charlotte I saw looking at me. My heart began to pump faster and faster as the image of Charlotte beckoned to me, challenged me, urged me to once again taste of the sweetness of her lips. 

I couldn't resist. Besides, I could see that Charlotte didn't want me to resist. She still loved me; I could see it in her eyes and in her smile. I leaned forward slowly, bringing my face toward hers, closing my eyes when my focus became blurred and allowing my lips to search out hers with the help of my remaining senses. Her lips were warm and soft as they received me, parting only slightly so that my tongue might just brush hers, tantalizing me with a growing desire to know her hidden delights. Her hand pushed against the center of my chest and I pulled away, questioning her action with my eyes and running my tongue along my lips, savoring the taste she had left behind. 

"What are you doing, Ben?" she asked softly and with obvious befuddlement. 

"I'm sorry. I thought you wanted, um, I thought you still, um, liked me," I stammered, looking away. 

"Sure, I like you, but you know I'm going steady with Charles, don't you?" 

"Charles?" I looked back at her and felt a stabbing at my heart when I saw it was Julie, not Charlotte, who had warmed and moistened my lips. "Julie!" I exclaimed under my scant breath. 

"Yes, Ben?" 

I stared at her for several seconds, not knowing what to say or do next. Julie had been my good friend since we were little. How could I explain what I had just done? And how could I reconcile for myself what I had wanted to do? "I, um...I'm so sorry. I didn't mean..." 

"You didn't mean to kiss me?" 

"No...yes...no...oh dear!" I turned away and covered my face. 

Julie came around and touched a tentative hand to my arm. "It's okay, Ben. It's all right. I understand." 

I uncovered my face and looked at her. "You do? But how--" 

"I was only teasing when I said that about you not knowing how to treat a girl. I know you could have a girlfriend if you wanted." 

"You think so?" 

She was the one to blush this time and she lowered her head before speaking. "Why not? You're a nice enough boy and kinda cute, too -- when you're not all banged up." 

"I am?" 

Julie smiled but evaded my question. "Plenty of girls would probably like to go out with you." 

"Plenty? No, surely not plenty." 

Julie's head shot up and she asked, almost angrily, "How do you know? Have you asked anyone?" 

"Well..." I shuffled uneasily. 

"Is there someone you, um, want to ask out?" Julie asked with some hesitation. 

"I don't know," I shrugged evasively. This wasn't something I could discuss with a girl -- not even with Julie. 

"It's me, Benny...Julie. You don't have to be shy with me." 

"No...I know." But I was. 

"Okay, forget it. You don't have to tell me. I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable." 

"No, it's all right, Julie. It was my fault. I'm sorry." 

She smiled and took my hands in hers. "Still friends?" 

"Of course," I smiled back and blushed as she kissed my cheek. 

"When's this coming off?" she inquired about my arm cast to, mercifully, change the subject. 

"A couple more weeks." 

"Does it still hurt?" 

"No, not really. Only if I do this," I said as I proceeded to lift her off the ground using only my injured arm. 

"Well, then, don't do that!" she screamed, swatting me and ordering, "Put me down, you dummy!" 

We laughed as I set her on her feet but kept my arm around her, unconsciously enjoying our closeness. Suddenly we stopped laughing as both of us became aware of our intimacy. I wanted to back away, but I also didn't want to back away. So I made no move yet. 

"You know," she said, looking at me with that wicked grin that had fascinated me since the day we met as children, "...if word gets around about what a good kisser you are, the girls are gonna be lined up outside your door." 

I didn't know what to say. Part of me was appalled at the thought of such a rumour being spread about me, but another part of me was excited by the prospect, as well as by the fact that I had just been told by a pretty girl that I was a good kisser. "I am? Um, I mean, how would they, um, find out?" 

"What do you think us girls talk about?" 

"Oh. Oh dear." 

"Don't the boys talk about girls?" 

"No...I don't know. Sometimes." I stepped back and looked at my feet as I idly kicked at the snow. "Girls don't, um, talk about me...do they?" 

"Maybe. Some of 'em. Sometimes." 

I looked at her in surprise and she turned away. I was dying to know what the girls said about me, but my grandmother had raised a gentleman, and a gentleman didn't discuss such things. In fact, the conversation was already getting out of hand. "But what about Charles?" I asked, trying to push thoughts of girls out of my mind. 

"What about him?" 

"If he hears about...that I, um, you know, kissed you, he'll be pretty upset, won't he?" 

"Yes, you're right," she agreed, then pondered quietly until an idea struck. "Tell you what. Maybe you're not such a good kisser, after all." 

"I'm not?" 

"Maybe not. Kiss me again." 

"You want me to kiss you again?" 

"It's the only way to find out for sure how good you are." 

"I don't know, Julie. It doesn't seem right. Not with Charles..." 

"Are you afraid of Charles Gerrard?" 

"No, of course not." 

"Then what are you scared of? Me?" 

"No. Nothing. I'm not scared. It's just -- " I sighed and took a deep breath then let my eyes gaze upon Julie's face. Her mouth was slightly open, as if poised to speak or, indeed, to kiss. I decided I would have to kiss her, strictly for scientific purposes. Well, maybe not _strictly_. After a thorough look around to ensure we were alone (more out of paranoia than necessity, considering the remoteness of the area), I brought my face closer to Julie's, hesitating momentarily as I wondered whether she would be able to feel the tingling of my body -- as if I were to pass an electric current to her with my touch. I tried to keep my eyes open to lessen the likelihood of again mistaking her for Charlotte because I feared I might get carried away under the spell of another such illusion, but when I started to go cross-eyed, I had to close them. 

"Do it just like you did last time, Ben, or it won't count," Julie instructed in a breathy whisper just as our lips were about to touch. 

I nodded then braced myself against the surging adrenaline as I fitted my mouth tenderly to hers. She again welcomed a gentle exploration and I fought the urge to probe beyond what she was offering. She felt good, despite the fact that I was aware this time that she wasn't Charlotte, and when the realization came to me that she might be able to sense my enjoyment, I stepped back, bringing the kiss to a sudden end. I crossed my hands before me and looked at her in expectation of her judgment, feeling very guilty because I couldn't help hoping for the verdict which I knew I shouldn't be desiring in that situation. "So, um..." I coughed out nervously. "What, um, how was it?" 

"Hmm." She looked at me, but her face didn't give away any more than her voice. 

"Hmm? What's that mean, hmm?" I asked a bit testily. 

"Relax. I won't tell anyone." 

"Oh." I paused, then added, "So, it, um, I wasn't very good, then?" 

"No, you were fine. Really. Fine, Ben." 

"Fine?" How it could have felt so good to me and only fine to her was beyond me, and, consequently, my feelings of inadequacy multiplied. 

"Better than fine. Your kiss was, uh, very nice." 

"I see. Okay." I was sure she was being kind, trying not to hurt my feelings, and I was crushed. I couldn't let her know that, however. At a loss for appropriate words, I added, "Sorry." 

"Sorry because it was nice?" she asked, perplexed. 

"No, um, I don't know. Was it really?" 

"I said so, didn't I?" 

"Yeah." 

"All right, then. It was delightful, Ben. Any girl would think so." 

Okay, so I believed her that time, but, still, circumstances demanded that I refrain from showing my joy. "Yes, but you, um, you have a boyfriend." 

"Yeah?" 

"So it was, um, improper for me to kiss you. I apologize." 

Julie smiled. "That's very sweet of you, Ben." She looked down and appeared embarrassed. "I was wrong before, when I said you don't know how to make a girl feel special." She looked up at me and I smiled bashfully, too tongue-tied to respond. "You don't want me to tell anyone you're a good kisser, do you?" 

"No, no, I guess not." I regretted having to give this answer, but to fail to discourage such conduct would have been strictly against the code of honour my grandmother had instilled in me. 

"Okay, I won't." 

"Good. That's good." I'm not entirely sure that either of us were pleased with this arrangement, but we had no choice, as far as I could tell. I took consolation in the fact that somebody did know that I was a good kisser. Julie knew, and I knew. That was something, at least. Even if Julie and I never used this knowledge in the future, the fact existed. "Um, thanks, Julie." 

She nodded, smiled shyly, and held out her hand to me. "It's getting late. Walk me home?" 

I took her hand and squeezed it affectionately. "Sure." After we had taken a few steps, I turned my head so that she couldn't see my face. "Julie?" 

"Yeah?" 

With my free hand, I nervously rubbed my thumb along my eyebrow. "You, um...your kiss was delightful, too." 

* * *

I was restless as I lay in bed that night. Once my grandparents turned in, the house became so still that all I could hear were my own thoughts, and I couldn't silence them. My mind was a jumble of thoughts and emotions which I didn't think I'd ever be able to reconcile. I hadn't heard from Dad since he disappeared and figured I probably wouldn't see him again until Spring when he returned for the annual Fraser hunt on which I had been allowed to join him and Grandpa since I was thirteen. But it wasn't so much his absence that was bothering me; it was the bad feelings between us which could not be resolved while I was in Tuktoyaktuk and he was...not. 

I seriously considered running away to find him, but when I remembered all that had resulted the last time I secretly ran off, I decided to think it over a little longer. Asking my grandparents' permission might be the best way to go, I told myself, but in so doing I'd be risking a negative response which would make running away that much more sinful if I finally did decide to go through with it against their wishes. 

"Argh!" I let out in a soft, yet frustrated, voice, clutching my head as if it would explode if I didn't. I wasn't going to cry. _I was NOT going to cry!_ I squeezed my eyes shut and held them like that for a few seconds before opening them wide with a quick motion. A flash of light caught my periphery and I turned my head toward the window and saw the glow of the Aurora Borealis reflecting off a distant ice-covered hill. 

I sat up and threw my legs over the side of the bed, then let my feet search out the hiking boots which were stored under the bed. I stood, sinking my feet into them but forgoing the laces, then draped the thick bed covering over my head and held it securely around me as I crept quietly through the cabin and out onto the back porch. 

As I gazed up at the Northern Lights, I could see the clouds of breath escaping me and then disappearing into the cold air. _Where do they go, those exhalations?_ I asked myself with a small smile of wonder. _Why are they visible one second and gone the next?_ I understood how it all worked. I'd learned all about the 'how' in my studies. But 'why' was another matter. 'Why' was much more difficult to grasp. 

I sat back in the chair and curled my legs under me. Winter had officially arrived that night. It had been dark, cold and snowy for months already, but now that the solstice had passed, it was a true Winter Cold that surrounded me that night on the porch. I pulled the blanket tighter and blew breath clouds into the air, trying with each successive exhalation to form a longer-lasting fog. 

After exhaling a particularly strong breath cloud, I noticed I was a bit light-headed, so I dropped my head against the back of the chair to rest and caught a glimpse of movement in the window of my grandparents' bedroom. With another look, I met my grandmother's eyes as she gazed at me through the window. I ducked my head further into the hood I had formed with the blanket, but Grandma continued to watch me. A significantly stricter curfew had been imposed on me after my irresponsible behaviour, but I reckoned the porch was considered in bounds so I was not going to go back inside the house unless asked to do so. As I stared her down, Grandma glanced at the dazzling sky and then back at me. Then, after a nod of her head, she disappeared. 

I breathed a sigh of relief, glad to be alone again. Under normal circumstances, I'm sure Grandma would have awakened Grandpa and they both would have joined me to admire the natural wonder dancing overhead. And I would have enjoyed their company. Grandma probably would have brewed us a kettle of hot chocolate and we would have huddled close under our blankets, bonding in our silent reverence. 

Circumstances weren't normal, however. I doubted they ever would be again. In fact, I had pretty much resigned myself to the fact that I would have to get used to a new normal. Doesn't that just figure? You're getting to a point in life where you think you can handle things, you think it's time to show everyone what you can do, and fate or the cosmos or some such inscrutable force plays havoc with your world. It's not fair; it really isn't. When someone tells you that life isn't fair, they are not copping out; they are telling you the gods' honest truth. 

Turning my attention back to the swirling colors in the heavens, I was quickly mesmerized. I was back on that ledge with Charlotte and, as I wrapped my arms around myself, it was her body I was hugging and her arms that were enveloping me. I could hear her telling me she loved me, but where was the face? Where was the mouth that had spoken those words? The lips that had kissed and received my kiss? Life was incomplete now, without them. 

"It's not lasting," Dad had said, and his words echoed ominously in my head. A fleeting pleasure, he had called it. Not worth the loss of your soul. _Oh heck!_ I cursed silently. *How will I ever regain my soul without the love of Charlotte in my life?* 

I thought back on everything that had happened. Nothing had turned out the way I'd thought -- or at least hoped -- it would. It had all been a huge mistake. Deceiving my grandparents. Running away. My miserable attempt to trap a group of criminals, which very nearly cost me my life as well as nearly costing my father the fruits of the months of work he had already put into bringing the miscreants to justice. Even Charlotte was a mistake. Our relationship was founded on lies. Nothing good can come of a lie, my grandmother had told me countless times. How had I forgotten that? I didn't deserve Charlotte. I did deserve the beating. I deserved my father's anger and my grandparents' mistrust. I even deserved Julie's taunts, which were truer than I hoped she would ever know. 

Julie. Wow. What had that been about? Why had I kissed her, why had I enjoyed it, and why had she insisted that I kiss her again? She was my friend and I had used her selfishly, whether she knew it or not. I didn't deserve her friendship. 

_No! It's too cold for tears. They'll freeze before they get half-way down your cheeks!_ I admonished myself angrily. _You're pathetic_ , I continued. *You're just feeling sorry for yourself. It's disgraceful. Buck up! Be a man! Yes, everything's gone wrong. It was your own fault. Learn from it, you idiot.* 

Learn from it. Hmm, what had I learned? What could I learn besides my own failings? Staring into the swirling kaleidoscope overhead, I got the strange sensation that the sky was breaking up and falling to the Earth in an apocalyptic storm of sub-atomic particles. I ducked under the blanket and shut my eyes, waiting for the inevitable explosion. But all was silent. No sudden impact disturbed the stillness of the night or stole me from my self-made cocoon. 

I opened my eyes and slowly freed my head from under the blanket, taking in more and more of the surrounding vista with each glance around. Everything was in its place. Nothing had changed. 

_An inner ear imbalance_ , I told myself with a smile. _The doctor will have a cure._

* * *

A loud slam of the door woke me from a sound sleep. I hadn't meant to fall asleep on the porch, but upon finding myself still out there, protected from the cold under the warm blanket, I realized it had been a blessing to nod off. Those few hours of sleep had proved the most peaceful rest I had had in a long time. I pulled the blanket away from my face and, although it was still dark, I could make out the figure of my grandfather securing his rifle to his pack. 

"Go get dressed. I'll wait," Grandpa said without turning to look at me. 

"Huh?" 

"You don't think your grandmother's gonna dream up Christmas dinner out of thin air, do you?" 

"No, sir." 

"Right, so you and I have some work to do." He stood up and turned, and when he saw that I was still huddled under the blanket, he clapped his hands together loudly and ranted, "Well, get a move on, boy! Time's a'wastin'!" 

I jumped to my feet and pulled the blanket around me, repeating "Yes, sir," a few times as I stumbled my way across the porch floor, nearly falling on my face when the blanket became tangled underneath my feet. "Grandpa?" I said, peeking back out to the porch once I'd made it inside. 

"Yeah, buddy?" 

"Is, um...how many of us will there be for Christmas dinner?" 

"Oh, the three of us, as usual, I imagine. Why? Is there someone you'd like to invite?" 

"Nah, I was just wondering." 

"Three's a good number for Christmas, don't you think?" 

"Is it?" 

"Sure. Look at the nativity. The holy family, they were three. The astrologers who followed the star to find the babe, they were three." 

"Yeah." 

"I'd say that puts us in good company, eh?" 

"I guess so. I just thought...maybe there'd be a fourth person this year." 

"No, I don't expect so, buddy." 

"Okay." I turned to go back inside, but stopped when Grandpa spoke again. 

"Hey, you know what else is three?" he asked. 

"What?" 

"Three is the number of minutes you've got to report back to me, dressed and geared for the hunt, or I'm heading out without you." 

I grinned and sped through the house toward my bedroom, colliding with my grandmother on the way. "Sorry, Ma'am," I said, helping to steady her after the impact. 

"Well, young man, where might you be off to in such a blind hurry at this time of the morning?" she asked good-naturedly while gripping the ends of the blanket at either side of me so that I was effectively her prisoner. 

"Hunting with Grandpa. He gave me three minutes to get ready or he's going without me," I explained, hinting with a nod of my head that it would be appreciated if she would let go of the blanket as those three minutes were passing quickly. 

"Three minutes, eh?" she said, teasing me by intentionally delaying my release. 

"Yes, ma'am, _only_ three," I stressed. 

"I see. Well, I hope you'll proceed with a bit more care out there than you did just now. Your grandpa's not as young as he used to be. He'll need someone with a sharp eye and a sure foot, someone he can rely on to be there and to do what needs to be done." 

"Yes, ma'am. I can do that." 

"Very well, then." She pulled the blanket off me and tugged my ear. "Off you go, now." 

"Thanks, Grandma." I set a loving kiss on her cheek and was off. 

* * *

End Measure of a Man by Strwriter and Mary:

Author and story notes above.


End file.
